m^ 


SiJ^ 


EMOIR  AND 


Columbia  (MnftJem'tp 
intI)eCttp0flrttigark 

THE  LIBRARIES 


Bequest  of 
Frederic  Bancroft 

1860-1945 


:.^>.*y'  ^^ 


"  V  r'^*'  ii^Ji 


f4vi  a.#Z''» 


X 


/ 


V7y/,/X^/V,-    /y^.//1^^ 


CHARLES  HENRY  BRIGHAM. 


MEMOIR  AND    PAPERS 


BOSTON: 


LOCKWOOD,  EJtOOKS  &  COMPANY. 


J       o 


9:^6^  7 


:io  i^  ^c^ 


Copyright  by 
LOCKWOOD,   BROOKS    &   CO. 

i88i. 


-  *.  •     *  • 

•  •''  '    ar 

*■  "I  •  •  * 

•  -  I 


*  ..-     «     e 

•  «      •    . 


CONTENTS. 


I.  MEMOIR 

I 

IL  PAPERS. 

I. 

Ambrose         .         .         .         .         . 

•     59 

2. 

Augustine           .... 

79 

3- 

Symbolism     .         .         .         .         • 

.  104 

4- 

Gregory  the  Great 

.       125 

S- 

Moham7ned   .          .          ,          .          . 

.  144 

6. 

Hildebrand        .... 

164 

7- 

Abelard         ..... 

.  185 

8. 

6"/.  Domijiic  and  St.  Francis 

208 

9- 

Copei'niciis     .         .         .          .         . 

.  231 

lO. 

Martin  Luther 

244 

11. 

St.  Theresa    ..... 

.  277 

12. 

Loyola      ..... 

299 

13- 

^/.  Charles  Borromeo     . 

.  Z^Z 

14. 

77z^  Socifii         .... 

349 

15- 

77z<?  Puritans  of  England 

.  368 

16. 

Ujiitarian  Principles 

392 

17- 

Characteristics  of  the  yews    . 

.  413 

18. 

Christianity  the  Universal  Religion 

435 

PREFACE. 


The  literary  executors,  appointed  by  Mr.  Brigham 
in  his  will,  offer  to  his  friends  and  the  public  the 
following'  volume  as  the  result  of  their  labors.  It 
consists  of  a  Memoir  by  his  classmate.  Rev.  E.  B. 
Willson,  and  such  selections  from  his  manuscripts 
and  printed  papers  as  would,  it  was  thought,  best 
illustrate  the  range,  quality  and  faithfulness  of  his 
work  and  scholarship.  He  left,  printed  and  unprinted, 
a  large  mass  of  materials  for  more  systematic  and 
homogeneous  volumes,  in  his  critical  reviews,  his- 
torical, biographical  and  geographical  lectures, 
European  and  Oriental  travels,  educational,  reform 
and  hygienic  articles,  and  sermons,  but  the  rapid 
transition  of  opinions  and  the  speedy  superannuation 
of  critical  and  literary  judgments  by  later  investiga- 
tions and  maturer  thought,  render  it  difficult  in 
general  to  use  for  present  purposes  to-day  what  was 
written  even  ten  or  twenty  years  ago,  without  modifi- 
cation or  cumbersome  notes.     Probably  even  in  what 


VI  PREFACE. 


we  have  published,  Mr.  Brigham's  own  quick  eye 
would  have  detected  many  things  to  change  or 
qualify.  But  the  object  primarily  has  been  to  repre- 
sent the  man,  not  opinions. 

With  these  explanations  we  contribute  the  volume 
as  another  not  unworthy  addition  to  the  increasing 
treasure-house  of  American  letters  and  biography. 
The  old,  old  story  of  character,  faith,  consecrated 
labor  and  immortal  hope  can  never  pall  on  human 
interest,  but  renews  itself,  like  the  fresh  seasons  of 
Nature  herself  with  never-tiring  attraction,  and  gives 
lessons  ever  new  and  stimulating  to  mind  and  heart. 
His  parishioners,  his  brethren  in  the  ministry,  and 
his  numerous  pupils  at  Ann  Arbor  and  Meadville 
will  recall  with  gratitude  many  a  word  which  helped 
them  to  higher  faith  and  nobler  living. 


ABIEL  ABBOT  LIVERMORE. 


NOTE, 


Rev.  Charles  Henry  Brigham  laid  upon  two  of 
his  friends  the  double  and  delicate  duty,  first,  of 
determining  whether  any,  and  if  any,  what,  of  his 
unpublished  papers  should  go  to  the  press ;  and, 
secondly,  the  "preparation  of  a  brief  memoir." 

The  two  friends  living  far  apart,  agreed  that  a 
memoir  could  not  conveniently  be  their  joint  work. 
Thus  it  has  come  to  be  undertaken  by  one  of  them  ; 
and  whether  fitly  or  ill  done,  the  responsibility  for  it 
rests  with  him. 

The  memorialist  would  never  have  thought  of 
nominating  himself  for  this  office,  nor  have  accepted 
it  under  any  less  constraining  commission  than  Mr. 
Brigham's  supposed  wish.  At  the  moment  of  taking 
up  the  pen,  he  has  his  eyes  upon  this  sentence : 
"Few  men  would  choose  their  own  biographers  well," 
and  believes  that  it  contains  the  truth. 

He  is  happily  able  to  supplement  his  own  imper- 


viii  NOTE. 

feet  sketch  with  some  touches  by  other  friendly 
hands,  notably  two,  which  he  has  set  by  themselves 
in  the  form  in  which  he  found  them  standing,  because 
they  seem  to  him  specially  worthy  to  be  preserved 
unchanged,  as  well  on  account  of  the  truth  and 
justness  in  them,  as  of  the  close  relations  in  which 
the  writers  stood  to  their  subject. 

E.  B.  WILLSON. 


MEMOIR 


MEMOIR. 


Charles  Henry  Brigham,  son  of  Dennis  and  Roxa 
(Fay)  Brigham,  was  born  in  Boston,  July  27th,  1820.  A 
child  of  good  parts,  he  made  easy  progress  through  the 
schools  which  he  attended  in  his  childhood  and  boyhood, 
and  went  from  the  Latin  School  to  Harvard  College  at  the 
age  of  fifteen,  graduating  in  the  class  of  1839. 

Of  his  early  childhood  we  have  but  a  glimpse  or  two. 
A  kinswoman  of  about  equal  age  with  him,  remembers  that 
when  he  came  on  visits  to  her  father's  house  in  the 
country,  as  he  frequently  did,  "  the  boy  cousins  cared  noth- 
ing about  him,  as  he  could  never  interest  himself  in  any  of 
their  sports.  The  chickens  were  his  chief  attraction,  and 
very  soon  he  knew  every  one  (although  we  had  a  large 
flock),  and  would  know  if  one  was  missing.  He  seemed 
to  make  a  study  of  them,  watching  all  their  ways." 

The  memory  for  which  he  was  distinguished  in  after 
years  showed  itself  early,  laying  hold,  with  swift  and  sure 
grasp,  of  the  facts  of  history  and  experience,  and  of  the 
literary  treasures  of  good  books. 

In  his  literary  training,  as  in  his  moral,  he  owed  more  to 
his  mother  than  to  all  other  masters  and  models.  "  To 
her,"  he  wrote  when  assuming  his  first  pastorate,  ''  I  owe 


MEMOIR. 


my  ambition  to  excel,  my  fondness  for  study,  and  mental 
culture." 

One  with  whom  he  maintained  a  warm  and  close  friend- 
ship for  almost  fifty  years.  Rev.  Amos  Smith  of  Belmont, 
furnishes  some  interesting  facts  and  pictures,  falling  within 
this  portion  of  his  life  : 

He  entered,  when  advanced  enough,  the  Bowdoin 
school,  corner  of  Temple  and  Derne  streets.  Its  site,  and 
the  lots  which  adjoined  it,  are  now  covered  by  the  West 
Boston  Reservoir.  He  completed  in  1830  the  course  of 
studies  pursued  in  that  school,  receiving  a  Franklin  medal. 
He  then  entered  the  Boston  Latin  School,  at  that  time 
kept  at  the  corner  of  School  Street  and  Chapman  Place. 
Horticultural  Hall  afterwards  covered,  but  the  Parker 
House  now  covers,  that  space.  It  was  then  (in  1830)  that 
my  acquaintance  with  him  commenced,  I  having  entered 
the  school  in  1829.  I  remember  him  well,  as  a  bright, 
intelligent,  wide-awake,  compactly-built,  rather  short,  mus- 
cular boy,  as  fond  of  fun  and  play  as  any  of  his  mates, 
but  obedient  to  the  rules  of  the  school,  of  uncommon  in- 
dustry, of  great  power  of  perseverance  in  the  studying  of 
his  lessons,  of  high  scholarship  in  all  departments,  and 
greatly  liked,  as  a  good  and  faithful  pupil,  by  all  the 
teachers.  I  suspect  that  no  boy  of  that  school  ever  com- 
mitted to  memorv  Adams's  Latin  Grammar  more  thorou2:hlv 
than  he  did.  Many  a  time,  here  in  Belmont,  he  has 
amused  me,  and  called  back  the  old  Latin  School  days,  by 
repeating-  with  glib  tongue  large  extracts  from  that  de- 
lectable volume,  and  especially  some  of  the  long  "lists" 
with  which  it  abounds,  and  which  at  school  we  had  to  learn 
by  heart.  Forty-five  years  had  not  erased  them  from  his 
memory.  What  he  learned  of  Latin  from  Masters  Dilla- 
way,  Gardner,  Streeter,  and  the  other  instructors  of  that 
school,  increased  by  what  he  subsequently  acquired  at 
college,  enabled  him  to  read  the  language  with  pretty  nearly 
the  same  facility  with  which  he  read  English.  And  his 
acquaintance  with  Greek,  though  less,  was  large.  He 
graduated  from  the  school  in  1835,  having  ranked  through 
his  whole  career  in  it,  among  the  highest  in  his  class. 


MEMOIR. 


In  college,  as  in  school,  he  was  studious,  maintained  a 
high  rank,  and  identified  himself  with  all  that  was  best  in 
scholarship,  and  worthiest  in  character.  A  high  ideal  of 
the  scholar's  vocation  held  him  to  a  lofty  aim  and  an  un- 
flagging patience  in  work  ;  and  to  the  end  of  his  life  he 
remained  a  loyal  son  of  the  University,  watching  over  her 
good  fame  with  a  jealous  pride,  and  justly  holding  it  an 
honorable  distinction  to  have  had  her  culture,  and  to  have 
received  her  well-won  credentials. 

Of  the  vear  that  intervened  between  his  sfraduation  and 
the  commencement  of  his  professional  studies,  six  months 
were  passed  in  teaching  in  a  private  school  kept  by  a 
French  gentleman  in  the  city  of  Baltimore,  Maryland  ;  the 
remainder  at  his  father's  house  in  New  York.  When  at 
home  he  was  not  idle.  He  had  no  capacity  for  idleness. 
He  read  industriously,  did  some  writing  daily,  and  mean- 
time weighed  seriously  the  question  of  his  life's  calling, 
which  he  settled  by  entering  the  Divinity  School  in  Cam- 
bridge in  August,  1840. 

Although,  even  after  this  choice  was  made,  we  find  him 
sometimes  expressing  a  doubt  whether  he  had  chosen 
wiseh'',  and  half  regretting  that  he  had  not  pursued  another 
vocation,  he  permits  us  to  see  in  a  "Thought  Book,"  which 
he  kept  through  the  year  1840,  how  steadily  and  positively 
his  mind  was  setting  all  this  time  in  the  direction  of  his  life- 
long labors.  And  we  must  go  even  farther  back  to  perceive 
fully  the  unity  and  consistency  of  his  character,  and  to  see 
how  strongly  all  the  indications  had  been  pointing  this 
way  from  the  first.  His  mother's  influence  has  been  men- 
tioned. That  of  the  church  is  not  to  be  overlooked. 
The  family  regularly  attended  worship  in  the  West  Boston 


MEMOIR. 


Church,  of  which  Rev.  Charles  Lowell  was  the  minister 
while  Charles  Brigham  was  growing  and  plastic.  Mother 
and  son  were  there  together.  The  apostolic  dignity  of  the 
preacher,  his  deep  seriousness  of  manner,  the  exacting  and 
inspiring  standard  of  life  which  he  held  up  to  view  as  the 
Christian  ideal,  and  his  pastoral  closeness  and  fidelity  to 
the  households  of  which  his  congregation  was  made  up, 
could  not  fail  to  impress  the  imagination  of  this  quick- 
minded  and  observant  boy.  They  did  impress  him  deeply, 
and  are  to  be  counted  among  the  most  undoubted  and 
effective  of  the  causes  that  gave  bent  to  his  mind,  when 
the  time  came  to  fix  upon  a  profession. 

About  the  time  he  went  to  Baltimore  he  began  a  careful 
and  consecutive  reading  of  the  New  Testament,  making  a 
record  from  day  to  day  of  the  results,  both  as  to  their 
practical  lessons  and  as  establishing  the  character  of  their 
writings.  At  the  close  of  the  survey,  which  ran  through 
nearly  a  year's  time,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
evangelical  history  was  trustworthy,  and  accepted  the 
New  Testament  "  as  a  guide  book  in  the  way  of  duty." 
"  If  I  walk  by  its  precepts  I  am  secure  against  falling.  It  is 
a  practical  book,  the  most  practical  I  ever  read ;  eminently 
fitted  to  be  a  lamp  to  my  feet  and  a  light  to  my  path  .... 
I  am  going  now  to  enter  upon  the  study  of  divinity. 
.  .  .  .  I  shall  ever  remember  this  year  as  being  the  occa- 
sion of  my  first  reading  of  the  New  Testament."  He 
had  omitted  the  "Revelation"  from  his  reading  as  "a 
book  which  is  perhaps  apocryphal,  and  certainly  not  con- 
nected with,  or  subsidiary  to,  the  original  design  of  the 
book  in  general." 

It  was  at  Divinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  and  at  the  begin 


MEMOIR. 


ning  of  the  academic  year  in  1840,  that  I  first  met  Mr. 
Brigham.  The  next  three  years  were  passed  in  ahnost 
daily  and  intimate  intercourse  with  him. 

The  life  of  a  student  in  a  theological  school  is,  to  exter- 
nal observation,  monotony  itself :  a  round  of  exercises  at 
appointed  hours,  quiet  study,  much  writing,  much  reading, 
solitary  walks  and  walks  in  pairs,  the  professor's  learned 
lecture  and  paternal  advice,  argument  and  discussion  around 
the  recitation  tables,  accidental  groupings  at  odd  hours, 
when  fun  and  banter,  wit  and  story  rule ;  and  at  other  hours, 
when  in  more  serious  conference  conscience  makes  in- 
quisition of  motive,  and  young  men,  not  without  anxiety, 
forecast  the  future  of  their  hopes  and  fears — such,  to  exter- 
nal observation,  is  this  life  of  the  student  of  theolog\\  It 
is  a  great  deal  more,  to  be  sure,  to  the  eye  reading  with 
more  insight.  It  is  far  from  monotonous ;  it  is  as  excit- 
ing as  the  career  of  the  explorer  in  unknown  countries,  or 
the  struggle  in  the  thick  of  business  for  the  great  prizes  of 
fortune. 

In  the  retrospect  of  that  time  no  figure  is  more  constant 
to  my  eye  or  mind  than  Mr.  Brigham's.  Foraging 
widely,  he  was  the  foremost  and  most  diligent  of  readers, 
most  abundant  of  writers,  faithful  in  attendance  upon  all 
prescribed  exercises,  never  backward  in  debate,  no  laggard 
at  a  walk,  sincere  and  serious  always  in  his  approach  to 
serious  themes,  and  in  his  treatment  of  matters  of  moral 
concern  and  religious  experience  never  otherwise  than 
earnest  and  reverent. 

Neither  at  that  period,  nor  later,  was  he  usually  credited 
with  the  religious  sensibility  which  he  possessed.  This 
was  owing  not  to  reserve,  nor  to  any  mask  of  manners 


MEMOIR. 


that  he  designedly  wore,  for  he  was  frank  to  a  fault.  But 
he  was  naturally  self-assertive,  and  set  a  high  value  on 
scholarly  acquisition,  and  on  some  personal  advantages  of 
opportunit}',  in  which  he  was  affluent.  With  a  pretty  large 
self-esteem  he  was  sure,  therefore,  to  offend  at  times  by  . 
assumptions  of  superiority  and  all-knowingness.  Along 
with  this,  but  overlaid  and  hidden  by  it,  went  a  genuine 
humility  and  an  honest  self-depreciation,  of  which  abun- 
dant autographic  proofs  exist.  Better  proof  than  self- 
reproaches —  of  which  there  was  no  lack  in  his  private 
notes  —  he  took  sharp  criticism,  when  it  came  from  a 
friend  and  one  whom  he  respected  as  a  competent  critic, 
with  an  unsparing  self-application,  making  no  defense  of 
himself  nor  complaint  of  injustice,  though  he  felt  it  with 
a  wincing  keenness. 

After  graduation  from  the  Divinity  School,  Mr.  Brigham 
preached  in  several  vacant  pulpits  from  one  to  eight  Sun- 
days each.  His  longer  engagements  were  in  Watertown 
three  Sundays,  in  Greenfield  four,  in  South  Boston  eight, 
in  Taunton  six.  Having  received  a  call  to  settle  as  Pastor 
of  the  First  Congregational  Society  in  Taunton,  he  ac- 
cepted it  on  the  20th  of  February,  1844,  and  was  ordained 
on  the  27th  of  March,  the  same  year.  In  his  letter  of 
acceptance  he  said:  ''I  can  only  bring  you  the  talent.s 
wdiich  God  has  given  me,  a  willingness  to  labor,  and  a  sin 
cere  interest,  I  trust,  in  the  work  of  the  ministry."  Sucii 
words,  common  in  such  communications,  are  no  common 
places  here.  "A  willingness  to  labor  and  a  sincere  inter- 
est in  the  work  of  the  ministry  :  "  proper  and  modest  words 
for  the  occasion,  but  not  much  color  in  them  then  ;  how 
loaded  with  meaning  and  warm  with  life,  as  we  read  them 


MEMOIR. 


now,  with  the  record  of  a  completed  ministry  of  twenty- 
two  years  throwing  light  upon  them  !  Willingness  to  labor? 
It  was  an  irrepressible,  exulting  eagerness  with  him. 
Labor  was  his  delight.  No  brief  spasms  and  spurts,  fol- 
lowed by  panting  lassitude.  It  went  on  steadily  from  the 
beginning  of  the  year  to  the  end :  from  year  to  year.  He 
carried  about  him  no  air  of  being  hurried  or  flushed  by 
overwork.  He  was  always  fresh  :  one  dav  was  like 
another  :  busy,  but  with  room  for  new  claims.  He  had 
leisure  always  for  social  occasions  and  for  recreation, 
as  men  of  industry  and  method  usually  have,  because, 
mastering  their  work,  their  work  does  not  master  them. 
To  enumerate  his  preachings,  lectures,  meetings,  pastoral 
visits,  school  visits,  journeys,  gives  but  a  faint  idea  of  it, 
though  they  indeed  astonish  by  their  number  and  variety. 
His  labor  at  his  books  and  pen  was  not  abridged  nor 
slurred  because  he  had  so  many  calls  abroad.  His  love 
of  study  took  care  for  that.  Up  to  midday,  and  past  — 
to  be  precise,  his  rule  was  "till  4  o'clock,  p.  m."  —  he  was 
steady  at  his  work-table.  He  needed  less  sleep  than  most 
men,  and  was  a  late  sitter  at  night.  One  of  the  most  tire- 
less of  men,  both  as  to  bodily  activity  and  mental  labor, 
his  high  praise  of  a  fellow  traveller  who  was  his  compan- 
ion through  some  European  lands,  was,  that  he  was  one  of 
the  best  men  to  travel  with  that  he  ever  knew,  "because 
he  possessed  so  much  learning  and  7iever  got  tired^ 

Better  than  any  words  of  mine  to  characterize  or  de- 
scribe the  fullness  of  this  ministry  of  Mr.  Brigham  in 
Taunton,  will  be  the  grateful  and  warm-hearted  testimony 
of  some  of  his  friends  and  parishioners,  whom  he  won  »and 
bound  to  himself  by  his  manly  sincerity,  his  incorruptible 


8  MEMOIR. 


fidelity  to  truth,  and  his  generous  gift  of  himself  to  the 
service  of  all.  It  is  to  be  remarked,  moreover,  that  this 
is  a  character  which  wore  well,  as  the  tributes  we  cite  to  its 
worth  come  late.  It  is  not  the  enthusiasm  of  a  young 
friendship  that  speaks.  It  has  run  through  many  years  of 
close  and  familiar  contact,  and  has  survived  other  years  of 
separation.  The  judgment  is  of  one  tried  in  all  weathers, 
showing  impressions  not  newly  made,  but  growing  deeper 
with  time.  They  are  not  neutral  men  who  leave  such  long- 
lasting,  and  deep-cut  traces  where  they  have  been. 

One  who  knew  him  intimately  and  had  best  opportuni- 
ties to  discover  the  quality  of  his  central  purpose,  says 
of  him  that  from  the  time  of  his  coming  to  Taunton  in 
1844,  a  young  man  of  twenty-three  years,  to  his  leaving  in 
1865: 

His  course  was  an  unvarying  one  of  devotion  to  his 
work  as  a  minister,  friend  and  citizen.  When  he  went 
away  not  only  his  own  society,  but  every  society  of  what- 
ever denomination,  in  fact  the  whole  town,  mourned  his 
departure,  for  they  felt  that  the  main  prop  in  every  good 
work  was  taken.  His  opinions  upon  all  subjects,  social, 
moral,  intellectual  and  religious  were  sought,  so  that  he 
was  like  an  oracle.  If  any  vexed  question  occurred,  "  ask 
Mr.  Brigham,"  was  the  current  suggestion.  His  preaching, 
in  the  opinion  of  most  persons  was  of  the  highest,  because 
of  the  truest  order.  He  had  decided  beliefs  upon  all  sub- 
jects which  he  treated,  and  just  what  he  believed,  felt,  or 
knew  to  be  true,  he  preached  without  fear  or  favor.  I 
think  he  never  strove  to  make  "great "  sermons,  that  is, 
high-sounding,  sensational,  or  eloquent,  though  his  style 
was  eloquent,  I  think,  for  it  was  true,  simple,  and  con- 
cise. 

As  to  his  every-day  life,  the  writer  adds : 

He  entered  with  enthusiasm  into  every  work  connected 


MEMOin. 


with  his  parish.     No  dut}^  was  ever  neglected.     Reserving 
full  time  for  his  studies,  he  still  had  time  left  for  social 
intercourse  ;    and  oh !  how  welcome  he  was  everywhere. 
Occasionally  his  somewhat  brusque,  abrupt  manner  would 
offend  an  over-sensitive  person  a  little,  but  it  was  soon  for- 
gotten in  the  pleasure  which  his  presence  gave.    A  careful 
housekeeper  would  say  that  some  article  of  food  was  not 
quite  good,  and  he  would  echo  her  own  words  by  saying : 
"  No,  it  is  not  so  good  as  you  have  sometimes ; "  or  if  a 
new  picture  with  a  bright,  gilt  frame  was  subjected  to  his 
criticism,  the  frame,  its  chief  fine  point,  he  would  perhaps 
say  :  "  It  is  not  so  handsome  as  the  wall-paper  behind  it." 
He  might  have  left  that  first  thing  that  came  into  his  mind 
unsaid,  but  he  could  not  say,  if  he  saw  no  merit,  that  there 
was  any :  it  was  not  in  him.     These  are  light  things  to  tell, 
but  they  are  the  ones  which  sometimes  caused  the  imputa- 
tion of  rudeness.    I  make  a  distinction  and  say  they  showed 
his  truthful,  straight-forward  manner  of  speaking  just  what 
was  in  his  mind  ....   He  was  a  most  unsuspicious  per- 
son, believed  every  one  was  as  single-minded  and  truthful 
as  himself ;  and  if  brought  to  believe  that  any  one  was  not 
his  friend,  bore  no  malice  ....   He  liked  bright  young 
people,  and  they  were  fond  of  him.     Occasionally  there 
were  young  men  who  seemed  not  to  like  him,  but  they  were 
sure  to  be  young  men  who  were  not  quite  right,  whom  his 
strons:,  honest  words  or  manner  rebuked,     I  never  knew 
of  a  bright,  upright  young  man  who  did  not  admire  hrni, 
and  I  think  his  influence  over  such  persons  was  admirable. 

Mentioning:  a  familv  whose  house  was  more  a  home  to 
him  than  any  other,  the  writer  observes  that : 

The  son  and  daughter  always  welcomed  his  coming  with 
delight.  When  they  were  young,  he  would  play  games, 
solve  puzzles,  and  enter  into  their  youthful  sports ;  and 
when  they  were  older,  was  always  interested  in  their  studies, 
music,  etc.  Their  vouns:  friends  who  collected  there 
depended  upon  him  for  amusement  and  instruction.  If 
they  wanted  to  learn  anything  about  any  subject,  it  was  a 
joke  with  them  to  say:  "Now  we'll  wind  Mr.  Brigham 
up  —  ask  him  a  leading   question  —  then    off    he'll  go;"" 


»> 


lo  MEMO  IB. 


and  in  an  liour  thev  would  learn  more  than  in  anv  other 
way.  I  have  often  heard  one  of  my  nieces  say :  "  He  is 
the  sweetest-tempered  man  I  ever  knew."  He  always 
appeared  in  the  morning  bright  and  cheerful,  and  his 
last  words  at  night  were  the  same.  My  sister  (at  whose 
house  he  spent  some  part  of  every  summer)  would 
say  that  he  was  the  least  trouble  in  the  house  of  any 
man  she  ever  knew.  Everything  was  just  right.  Her 
manner  of  living  was  simple,  few  courses  of  wholesome 
food,  and  although  he  enjoyed,  what  he  often  had  at 
the  houses  of  friends,  a  luxurious  dinner,  I  think  he 
really  liked  the  simplest  fare  best.  The  impression  was 
sometimes  given  that  his  appetite  for  food  was  large. 
I  think  he  had  a  natural  healthy  appetite  for  a  strong 
man,  and   nothing   more.      He  had    a  strong   mind    in    a 

strong  body Stimulants  of  any  kind   never  passed 

his  lips.  He  once  had  a  slight  attack  of  dyspepsia  and 
spent  six  months  at  my  sister's,  and  it  seemed  no  sacrifice 
to  deny  himself  all  but  the  simplest  food,  and  when  asked 
if  it  was  not  hard,  would  say:  "  What,  hard  to  live  on  good 
graham  bread,  boiled  rice,  and  once  a  day  a  piece  of 
steak.? "  .  .  .  .  Since  reading  over  what  I  have  written,  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  dwelt  too  much  upon  trifling  things,  and  had 
not  said  half  enough  of  his  power  and  good  influence  in 
everything,  and  of  how  much  he  was  loved.  It  was  my 
privilege  often  to  walk  or  ride  with  him  when  he  made  calls, 
especially  when  he  came,  after  he  left  Taunton,  for  his 
yearly  visit,  which  I  think  he  could  hardly  have  lived  with- 
out. Old  persons  would  greet  him  as  if  he  were  a  son 
returned,  and  I  have  seen  plain,  elderly  women  burst 
into  tears,   and  even  embrace  him,   in  joy  at  seeing  him 

again His    presence    in    times   of    sickness   or 

trouble  was  always  welcome.  He  was  always  bright 
and  cheerful,  and  if  he  offered  a  prayer  it  was  full  of 
hope  and  consolation.  His  services  at  funerals  were 
such  that  after  he  left,  many  felt  as  if  they  could  hardly 
bury  their  dead  without  his  strong  words  of  sympathy 
and  comfort.  His  own  emotion  would  often  be  so  great 
that  he  could  hardly  speak.  His  prayers  on  such,  and 
on  all  occasions,  in  church,  at  marriages,  in  all  seasons 
of  sorrow  and  of  joy,  were  an  outpouring  from  a  devout 


MEMOIR.  II 


'leart,  of  gratitude  and  love  to  God  for  every  joy,  and  for 
stren2:th  to  bear  sorrow.  Not  so  much  askinij  for  favors 
or  blessings,  as  giving  thanks  for  mercies  and  blessings 
received.  His  love  of  nature  was  intense.  He  would 
repeat  fine  poetry  suggested  by  a  beautiful  scene,  flowers, 
or  anvthinof  lovelv  or  g^rand  in  nature.  He  was  full  of 
faith  in  a  communion  of  spirit  when  separated  in  body 
from  friends.  He  spent  many  Thanksgiving  and  other 
anniversaries  at  my  sister's,  and  never  after  he  left  Taunton 
would  he  ne2:lect  to  write  and  refer  to  the  old  times  and 
memories  both  in  her  own  and  other  families.  He  was  a 
modest  man.  I  think  he  never  wrote  or  preached  for  fame 
or  popularity.  He  wrote  and  spoke  what  he  thought  was 
needed  for  the  work  in  which  he  was  engaged  ;  and  his 
whole  strong,  healthful  body  and  soul  were  enlisted.  He 
never  spared  himself. 

In  a  few  passages  taken  from  the  letters  referred  to 
in  the  above  communication,  written  some  years  after 
Mr.  Brigham  had  left  Taunton  for  Ann  Arbor,  his  graphic 
pen  reveals  almost  pathetically  how  deep  the  roots  of  his 
early  friendships  and'  first  pastoral  affections  had  struck 
.  throu2;h  this  Taunton  soil,  and  how  hard  thev  found  it  to 
take  hold  and  grow  again  in  a  new  place  after  transplanta- 
tion : 

Ann  Arbor,  March  26th,  187 1. 

My  Dear  Friend  —  I  have  been  expecting  in  all  this 
week  to  get  a  letter  from  you  ;  and  though  I  have  been 
disappointed,  I  can't  resist  the  impulse  to  answer  the  letter 
which  has  not  come.  I  feel  rather  in  the  meditative  mood 
this  afternoon.  The  skies  are  dark,  the  wind  is  from  the 
East,  There  are  snowflakes  flying  in  the  air,  and  premoni- 
tions of  a  coming  storm.  I  ought  to  be  cheerful  and 
buoyant,  for  this  morning  at  the  last  meeting  for  the  sea- 
son of  the  Students'  Class  (which  now  numbers  284 !),  one 
of  the  Seniors,  who  has  been  three  years  a  member  of  it, 
in  a  very  feeling  and  complimentary  speech,  presented  me, 
in  behalf  of  the  class,  with  two  sets  of  books,  elegantly 
bound,  17  volumes  in  all,  as  a  testimony  of  their  regard 


12  MEMOIR. 


and  appreciation.  But  in  spite  of  this,  it  has  been  run- 
ning in  my  head  all  day,  that  this  is  the  last  day  of  the 
27th  year  since  I  was  ordained  in  Taunton,  and  I  have 
been  musing  on  the  old  home,  and  the  strange  changes 
which  these  years  have  brought  there,  and  have  been 
counting  the  shadowy  procession  of  the  vanishing  forms, 
which  I  shall  there  see  no  longer.  More  and  more  all  that 
life  of  twenty  years  seems  like  a  dream,  as  one  and  another 
who  were  parts  of  it,  drop  out  of  its  picture.  I  look  back 
upon  that  experience  as  something  almost  disconnected 
with  the  life  I  have  now,  as  far  apart  from  this  as  the  Old 
World  is  from  the  New.  The  friends  of  that  time  were  of 
a  different  kind  from  the  friends  I  have  now,  and  every 
one  that  dies  seems  to  cut  another  sensitive  nerve,  and 
weakens  sensibility.  I  used  to  feel  then  pained  at  the 
least  sign  of  the  ill-will  or  the  vexation  of  any  friend  in 
the  Church.  Now  I  do  not  care,  when  they  call  me  Anti- 
Christ,  a  friend  and  emissary  of  the  Devil,  and  all  sorts 
of  hard  names.  It  does  not  give  a  particle  of  pain,  and 
seems  more  like  a  jest.  It  troubles  my  congregation  more 
than  it  does  me.  I  am  getting  case-hardened  to  these  im- 
pressions of  the  passing  time,  and  all  my  emotions  are  for 
the  scenes  that  are  behind,  and  for  the  friends  from  whom 
I  have  parted.  I  attended  a  funeral  a  few  days  ago  in  a 
neighboring  town,  but  I  did  not  feel  the  occasion,  as  I  used 
to  in  the  former  days.  I  visit  some  sick  persons  here 
almost  every  week,  but  the  visits  are  rather  like  those  of  a 
chance  acquaintance  than  of  a  pastor.  It  does  not  seem 
as  it  did  once  that  I  belong  to  these  people  and  that  they 
have  a  right  to  my  sympathy.  They  are  simply  men  and 
women  who  happen  to  know  me  and  come  to  hear  Sunday 
discourse,  while  I  happen  to  be  here.  I  am  not  in  any 
sense,  as  Paul  says,  '  their  servant  for  Jesus'  sake.'  And 
yet  I  like  these  people.  I  never  had  in  the  old  parish 
more  genuine  supporters,  and  none  of  them  have  proved 
to  be  false  friends.  But,  after  all,  it  will  be  impossible  to 
revive  the  life  that  is  gone,  or  to  get  such  attachments 
again  as  made  the  charm  of  the  old  pastoral  relation.  I 
was,  twenty-seven  years  ago,  ordained  pastor  of  a  parish. 
For  the  last  half  dozen  years  I  have  been  only  the  propa- 
gandist of  ideas,  only  a  teacher,  and  have  not  wished  or 
cared  to  be  anything  more. 


MEMOIR.  13 


Ann  Arbor,  April  9,  1S71. 

My  Dear  Friend-— It  is  Easter  Sunday,  the  high 
Festival  of  the  Christian  year.  The  sun  is  shining 
brightly ;  the  air  blows  cool ;  the  birds  are  singing ;  just 
under  my  window  the  blue  birds  are  building  their  nests 
in  a  hollow  trunk ;  the  bells  are  ringing  for  the  afternoon 
meetings  of  the  children  ;  I  have  held  my  last  interview 
with  my  Bible  Class,  have  preached  an  Easter  sermon, 
have  celebrated  the  Lord's  Supper,  with  seventy  attend- 
ants upon  it ;  and  now  sit  down  to  answer  your  letter.  In 
spite  of  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the  hopeful  feeling 
that  belongs  to  the  season  of  opening  spring,  I  have  a  sad- 
ness which  cannot  be  kept  back,  and  this  morning  my 
mind  was  so  full  of  memories  that  my  voice  was  broken 
and  my  eyes  were  dimmed  all  through  the  service.  I  told 
the  people,  in  illustration  of  the  power  of  death  to  bring 
the  departed  near,  how  constantly  the  thought  of  a  friend 
of  mine,  who  had  recently  gone  on  to  his  home  in  the 
world  of  spirits,  came  to  me  as  I  had  been  visiting  the 
sick  and  seeing  the  ''good  physician"  by  the  side  of  the 
suffering;  —  for  there  is  a  good  deal  of  sickness  here  now, 
and  this  afternoon  I  am  going  to  see  a  sick  man,  an  old 
man,  whom  I  shall  probably  never  see  again.  It  is  very 
difficult  to  make  the  brethren  here  appreciate  my  idea  of 
the  communion  service.  The  old  prejudice  clings,  and 
they  will  only  see  the  superstition  of  the  ceremony,  and 
not  its  spiritual  meaning 

Do  as  you  please  with  my  books.  If  you  can  find 
room  for  them,  and  for  the  desk  and  other  things,  where 
they  will  not  suffer  harm  or  be  exposed  to  prying  eyes  and 
lingers,  I  shall  be  content.  I  would  transport  them  to  the 
West,  if  I  could  get  the  feeling  that  this  is  home,  and  that 
I  shall  be  a  fixture  here.  But  I  often  feel  as  if  I  ouirht  to 
go  back  to  New  England,  and  wait  there  the  coming  on  of 
old  age.  For  I  begin  to  feel  like  an  old  man,  when  I  see 
that  all  the  workers  around  me  are  younger  men,  and 
realize  how  few  among  the  Unitarian  ministers,  who  are 
efficient,  are  before  me  in  age 

The    Doctor's*  death  practically  breaks   up  my  home 

*  Ira  Sampson,  M.  D.,  to  whose  widow  this  letter  was  addressed.  To 
husband  and  wife,  Mr.  Brigham  was  "  like  a  brother."  Dr.  S.  is  "  the 
good  physician  "  of  a  foregoing  paragraph  of  the  letter. 


14  MEMOIR. 


in  Taunton,  and  I  shall  now  be  only  a  visitor  there  from 
house  to  house.  I  seem  somehow  now  to  realize  that  line 
of  the  hymn,  'Only  waiting  till  the  shadows.'  ....  But 
I  have  no  spirit  to  write  anything  more,  and  feel  brain- 
weary.  Remember  me  kindly  to  all,  to  Mr.  H.  especially, 
to  whom  I  was  intending  to  write  to-day,  as  I  always  asso- 
ciate him  with  the  communion  service  here.  I  have  you 
all  in  my  thought,  even  if  the  words  which  express  it  are 
not  very  fluent,  and  wish  that  eight  hundred  miles  were  not 

between  our  places  of  abode 

Truly  your  friend, 

Chas.  H.  Brigham. 

This,  surely,  was  not  coming  old  age,  nor  fainting  with 
labor,  nor  yet  "brain-weariness."  It  was  simply  the  yearn- 
ing for  old  friends,  and  a  softening  into  a  passing  mood  of 
sadness  at  the  recollection  of  days  busy  and  joyous,  now 
gone  by.  Long  after  this  his  life  was  brimful  of  work,  and 
his  heart  was  light  after  the  manner  of  the  industrious. 

We  select  some  passages  from  another  letter  coming 
from  a  former  parishioner  of  Mr.  Brigham,  to  show  how 
positive,  wholesome  and  enduring  was  his  influence  ujoon 
young  men : 

Although  I  was  but  a  child  of  ten  years  when  he  was 
settled,  his  influence  was  near  me  during  the  formative 
period  of  the  character,  the  fixed  purpose  of  which  I  shall 
always  remember  him  gratefully  for.  His  life,  as  a  young 
man,  bore  the  exemplification  of  two  mottoes  that  always 
seemed  to  be  impressed  upon  me  by  his  presence,  —  Duty 
and  Faithfulness.  The  well  known  variety  of  his  untiring 
labors,  that  have  made  so  many  men  in  the  profession 
stand  aghast  at  his  industr}^  may  best  explain  the  sense  of 

his  always  being  alive  to  the  duties  next  at  hand 

Having  a  place  in  the  Sunday  School  from  my  earliest 
recollection,  either  as  scholar  or  teacher,  till  the  year  of 
Mr.  Brigham's  leaving  Taunton,  I  cannot  forget  the  stimu- 
lus his  example  afforded  in  a/ways  doing  his  full  duty  to 


MEMOIR.  15 


the  extent  of  that  rare  thoroughness  and  faithfidness  that 
left  an  inward  censure  to  any  one  falling  back  in  a  work 
or  obligation  once  begun.  Of  a  zealous  student  with  an 
eager  grasp  for  knowledge  from  every  possible  source,  it  is 
no  slight  thing  to  say  that  he  was  always  in  the  Sunday 
School,  the  conference  meeting,  the  committee  room,  and 
the  Bible  class,  and  never  late.  A  punctual  care  and 
attendance  upon  these,  with  a  score  of  other  tributary  in- 
terests pertaining  to  the  life  and  welfare  of  denominational 
affairs,  secured  a  heartiness  of  cooperation  that  would 
have  been  feeble  or  unknown  without  his  earnest  leadinof, 
.  .  .  The  force  of  continued  example  v/orks  wonders  in  a 
community  ....  The  result  of  the  first  ten  or  fifteen  years 
of  Mr.  Brigham's  ministry  was  certainly  this.  His  private 
and  public  efforts  as  preacher  and  teacher  were  many 
times  too  stimulating,  often  being  so  much  in  advance  of 
the  common  reader.  Helpfulness  came  very  largely  to 
the  younsT  who  came  to  his  studv  for  the  weeklv  Bible 
lesson.  Fact  and  authority  and  information  rolled  in  upon 
us  till  we  were  often  too  full  for  utterance ;  the  more  timid, 
as  I  can  testify,  being  awed  by  the  knowledge  we  had  not 
dreamed  of. 

Unswerving  in  exactness  of  speech  and  act  as  we  felt 
him  to  be,  the  obligations  of  men  and  women  to  the  most 
sacred  interests  of  life,  were  continually  shown  to  be  the 
first  in  importance.  If  never  really  intolerant  towards 
immorality,  a  certain  contempt  for  failures  in  character 
appeared  severe,  when  niuch  latent  pity  was  in  his  heart. 
Truth,  uprightness  and  dignity  wercthe  virtues  he  expected 
in  men,  and  being  very  slow  to  distrust,  honest  and  out- 
spoken always,  he  had  nothing  to  conceal,  believing  most 
to  be  as  honest  as  himself.  The  loss  of  confidence  in 
men,  through  the  narrow  opinions  that  could  not  bear  the 
light  nor  the  clash  that  comes  from  honest  difference,  I 
never  knew  to  grow  into  a  shadow  of  enmity,  nor  to  alter 
the  manliness  of  his  external  courtesy  ....  Happy  are 
they  whose  religious  sentiment  finds  strength  and  encour- 
agement in  the  example  of  an  able  and  upright  man.  In 
him  the  profession  was  always  dignified,  if  sometimes 
magnified.  But  the  conscientiousness  of  care  over  small 
and  great  things  alike  showed  the  man,  "  faithful  in  every- 
thing.'* 


MEMOIB. 


It  was  a  habit  with  Mr.  Brigham,  in  which  we  presume 
very  few  preachers  have  preceded  or  followed  him,  to 
write  out  an  abstract  of  every  sermon  that  he  preached, 
usually  from  a  half  page  to  a  full  page  in  a  large  ledger- 
like blank-book,  whose  record  now  shows  the  subject  of 
every  Sunday^s  lesson,  and  the  main  points  in  its  treatment. 
Many  abstracts  of  the  discourses  of  other  preachers,  who 
occupied  his  pulpit  in  his  absence,  are  also  recorded. 

After  he  had  carried  on  for  nine  years  his  multifarious 
labors  in  Taunton,  he  saw  the  time  come  when  he  might 
fairly  claim  the  recreation  of  a  period  of  foreign  travel. 
He  knew  by  books,  and  much  inquiry,  a  great  deal  of  the 
lands,  the  peoples,  the  treasures  of  art  and  literature  which 
the  other  continent  held,  and  desired  to  see  with  his  own 
eyes  its  monuments  of  the  past,  to  taste  on  its  own  soil  the 
flavor  of  its  historical  associations,  and  to  study  by  per- 
sonal observation  and  contact  the  characteristics  of  the 
nations  now  occupying  its  territories. 

On  the  23d  of  Ma}^,  1853,  he  embarked  at  New  York 
on  the  ship  "Constitution,"  a  sailing  vessel,  for  Liver- 
pool. In  name  this  was  leisure  before  him.  He  did  not 
want  leisure  :  did  not  know  how  to  use  it,  —  as  leisure. 
Scarcely  was  he  out  of  sight  of  the  American  shore 
before  he  was  taking  the  dimensions  of  his  ship,  inven- 
torying its  nautical  equipments  and  passenger  accommo- 
dations, gauging  the  capacities  of  its  officers,  rating  its 
seamen, -classifying  his  fellow  passengers,  describing  the 
families,  individuals  and  nationalities  occupying  the  steer- 
age, noting  the  phenomena  of  sea  and  sky,  laying  his  own 
unaccustomed  hands  to  the  ropes  for  exercise,  and  when 
other  resources  failed,  turning  to  the  ever  familiar  pen  to 


MEMOIR.  17 


indite  the  daily  occurrences  and  emotions  that  marked  his 
new  experience,  in  journal  or  letters  to  home  friends,  not 
omitting  to  record  —  with  a  little  pardonable  exultation, 
perhaps  —  that  "all  the  cabin  passengers  except  Mr.  B., 
the  Scotchman,  and  myself,  were  sea-sick,  my  Yankee 
chum  worst  of  all."  Later,  however,  he  had  some  experi- 
ence of  that  as  yet  unknown  malady. 

If  he  did  not  find  leisure  on  ship-board,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  he  found  none  after  landing.  Covering  more 
miles  in  travel  by  his  activity,  and  seeing  more  objects, 
and  more  in  those  objects,  than  would  almost  any 
other,  he  nevertheless  found  opportunities  to  write  long 
and  frequent  communications  to  his  parish,  his  Sunday 
School,  a  Taunton  newspaper,  and  to  his  friends.  In  the 
summer  and  autumn  of  1853,  he  explored  such  countries 
of  Europe  as  time  would  allow.  Near  the  end  of  the 
year  he  crossed  from  Sicily  to  Malta  and  Egypt,  ascended 
the  Nile  to  the  foot  of  the  Libyan  mountains,  and  on  the 
i8th  of  February,  1854,  set  forth  from  Cairo  in  company 
with  a  large  and  well-appointed  caravan  of  twenty-two 
camels  for  Palestine,  across  the  desert.  He  visited  Da- 
mascus, and  on  his  return  way  Baalbec  and  Bairout,  sailing 
thence  on  the  20th  of  April,  1854,  for  Symrna.  The 
Oriental  languor  never  overtook  him,  nor  arrested  his 
steps.  On  the  lazy  Nile  he  was  alert  in  every  sense, 
ready  for  an  excursion  to  right  or  left,  as  famous  places 
attracted  him.  But  though  always  moving  on  when 
possible,  he  was  never  in  such  a  hurry  as  to  pass  by, 
without  attention,  objects  or  places  worthy  of  observation. 
Crossing  the  sandy  desert,  or  toiling  through  the  snow 
that  obstructed  the  mountain  paths  of  Leb:inon,  he  v/as 
2 


1 8  MEMOIR. 


never  too  worn  to  take  notice  of  scenery  or  inhabitants,  or 
too  indifferent  to  recall  the  history  which  the  land  illus- 
trated. At  the  end  of  his  Syrian  expedition  he  wrote  that 
he  had  "  never  been  sick  or  tired  out  on  a  single  day  of 
the  long  two  months  journey." 

Letters  from  clergymen,  travelling  in  the  East  and  in 
Europe,  to  their  Sunday  Schools  and  congregations  have 
become   so  common   as   to   be   no    longer    novelties;  but 
seldom  has  it  been  my  good  fortune  to  read  any  so  com- 
plete, so  graphic  in  detailed  description,  and  so  accurate 
and   full   in  information   as   are   some   of    Mr.    Brigham's 
letters  to  his  Sunday  School  in  Taunton.    When  in  a  Cath- 
olic country,  he  described  minutely,  and  in  terms  intelligi- 
ble to  the  young,  the  modes  of  worship  of  its  Church,  its 
famous  church  buildings,  and  the  local  traditions  and  his- 
tory of  the  place  from  which  he  happened  to  be  writing. 
In  lands  where  the  Greek  Church  represented  the  estab- 
lished religion,  he  noticed  its  peculiarities  and  divergencies 
from  the  Catholic  Church  in   its  claims  and  usages.     In 
Jerusalem  and  Palestine  the  Moslem  faith  and  its  votaries, 
as  well   as  the  Christian  and  Jewish  antiquities,  and  the 
natural  features  of  the  country  are  drawn  forth  on  pages 
as  carefully  and  correctly  written  as  if  they  had  been  pre- 
pared  in   his   study   in    Taunton    for   the    printer  —  lucid 
descriptions,    combining    the   life-likeness   of    an   eye-wit- 
ness's recital,   with    a   learned    scholar's    competent    and 
assured  statements. "^ 

*  Some  passages  from  these  letters  might  naturally  be  looked  for 
either  in  this  Memoir  or  in  the  accompanying  selection  from  Mr.  Brig- 
ham's  writings.  Unfortunately,  while  the  letters  which  have  passed 
through  my  hands  fully  warrant  what  is  said  of  them  above,  they  are 
written  usually  on  both  sides  of  the  thinnest  of  paper,  the  sheets  are 


MEMOIR.  '  19 


There  were  those  amons:  his  hearers  who  thouirht  that 
after  his  return  from  abroad,  the  character  of  his  preach- 
ing changed  somewhat;  that  he  became  more  interested 
in  extra-parochial  labor,  and  that  as  his  writing  and  study 
for  the  press  very  considerably  increased,  his  engrossment 
with  his  special  w^ork  as  the  minister  of  his  own  parish 
became  less  dominant,  and  that  his  preaching  was  less 
direct  and  tender,  dealing  more  with  subjects  of  a  specu- 
lative, intellectual  and  universal  scholarship.  Others  seem 
not  to  have  been  conscious  of  such  a  change.  Certainly 
it  came  from  no  cooling  of  his  affections  for  his  own  peo- 
ple, if  it  was  a  reality.  Nor  was  there  any  falling  off  from 
his  high  ideal  of  pastoral  fidelity.  More  than  ever  dear 
to  him  seemed  his  parish  and  home  after  he  had  seen 
other  lands.  Without  wife  or  children,  those  affections 
which  usually  find  their  expression,  resting-place  and  satis- 
faction in  domestic  ties  and  duties,  in  his  case  seemed  to 
wed  and  bind  him  to  his  place  and  parish.  He  was  proud 
and  happy  to  belong  to  them,  and  to  claim  them  as  his 
home.  His  home  thoughts  were  associated  only  with  them 
and  theirs  :  the  words  of  Ruth  might  have  told  his  loy- 
alty :  —  "  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  ....  whither  thou 
goest  I  will  go ;  and  where  thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge  \  thy 
people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God ;  where 
thou  diest  will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried."  His 
yearning  fondness  for  this  first  scene  of  his  labor  in  the 
ministry  shows  itself   in  his   desire   to   be   buried  in  the 

unpaged,  and  by  passing  through  many  hands,  some  of  which  were  not 
careful  to  preserve  their  orderly  arrangement,  they  have  become 
almost  hopelessly  dislocated  and  mixed ;  so  that  the  task  of  making 
them  available  for  use  proved  too  severe  a  strain  upon  the  eye-sight, 
and  taxed  too  heavily  the  time  at  my  command. 


20  MKMOlli. 


beautiful  ouclosuro  iu  whicli  stauils  tlio  Taunton  church:  a 
desire,  however,  which  for  reasons  (.leenuul  ciMUrolliuir  by 
those  with  whom  tlie  decision  rested,  could  not  be  com- 
plied witii. 

Early  in  1S65,  perhaps  earlier,  the  otlicers  of  the  AnuMi- 
can  Unitarian  Association  hail  their  attention  turned  to 
the  Lireat  and  irrowiuir  State  Universitv  of  Michiijan  at 
Ann  Arbor,  as  a  field  favorable  for  bringing-  liberal  theol- 
ojrv  into  contact  with  western  minds.  When  the  man  was 
looked  for  to  represent  this  theology  and  faith,  Mr.  lirig- 
ham  was  an  easy  and  a  natural  selection.  The  opportunity 
was  one  that  appealed  strongly  to  his  scholarly  tastes,  his 
consciousness  of  adaptation  in  manv  important  respects  to 
the  teacher's  ollice  ;  while  his  interest  in  the  faitii  of  h.is 
fathers  and  in  the  creed  of  liis  own  well -tested  anil 
matured  convictions,  and  his  persuasion  o\  the  great 
worth  of  the  Unitarian  interpretation  of  religion  and  life 
to  the  free  and  forming  West,  went  heavilv  into  the  scale 
in  favor  of  the  enterprise.  The  only  hindrance  was  the  cord 
of  triple  strength  that  held  him  to  his  place  and  people 
in  Taunton.  After  consideration  and  some  delay,  he  came 
to  see  it  to  be  his  duty  to  accejM  the  post,  provisionally, 
lie  would  try  it.  and  if  it  proved  that  he  was  the  man 
wanted,  would  stay.  That  his  society  might  be  disembar- 
rassed of  all  reference  to  his  future  plans,  liowever.  he 
resigned  his  ministry  on  the  23d  of  April,  1S65.  His 
resignation  was  not  accepted,  but  leave  of  absence  for  six 
months  was  granted,  it  bcinir  voted  that  his  salarv  should 
go  on  meanwhile.  He  declined  the  salary,  but  consented 
to  the  continuance  of  the  connection  for  the  time  specilied. 
Finding   upon    trial   that   it  was  his  duty  to  remain,  he 


MEMOIR.  21 


rtincvvcd    Iiis  resignation   of   his  Taunton    ministry  on   the 
26th  of  I'chrnary,  t866,  and  it  was  accepted, 

J>y  this  transplantation  Mr.  Hrigham  fourifl  himself  in  a 
social  climate  in  m.iny  ways  different  from  that  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  from  his  youth  \\\>.  Horn  in  lios- 
ton,  the  chief  New  England  city,  half  his  forty-five  years 
spent  in  it  or  in  its  near  neighborhood,  the  other  li.ilf  in  a 
large  parish  situated  in  the  f;ld  I'lymcjuth  colony,  with  a 
history  running  back  to  1637,  where  the  flavor  of  the  old- 
est New  JMigland  life  lingers  if  anywhere,  he  had  all  the 
typical  New  l^nglander's  prejudices  in  favor  of  the  ancient 
order,  the  arts,  conveniences  and  culture  of  an  old  com- 
munity, with  its  long -established  institutions.  Distaste 
for  the  raw,  crude  anrl  mixed  social  elements  which  go  to 
the  compounding  of  the  people  of  a  new  country,  was 
strong  in  him.  Of  course  he  knew  he  should  find  what  he 
did  find,  most  congenial  associations  under  the  shadow  of 
the  broadly-conceived,  well-endowed,  nobly-manned  and 
equipped  University,  to  which  already  great  numbers  of 
the  most  promising  young  men  of  the  Western  States  were 
flocking  for  instruction.  Mis  mission  was  to  these  young 
men.  }Ie  scarcely  looked  beyonrl  them  as  he  surveyed 
the  new  field  before  him.  He  was  to  become  the  pastor 
of  a  church  in  Ann  Arbor,  it  is  true;  anrl  he  would  be 
conscientiously  faitliful  to  every  duty  he  undertook  to  per- 
form in  its  behalf,  as  it  was  his  nature  to  be  in  whatever 
lie  did.  But  he  never  expected  to  feel  again  the  fresh 
ardor  and  the  kindling  hope  with  which  he  had  entered 
into  his  first  youthful  ministry,  nor  would  he  believe  that 
any  people  could  ever  be  to  him  what  those  whom  he  was 
leaving  behind  had  grown  to  be  in  twenty  years.     Perhaps 


22  MEMOIR. 


this  feeling  was  too  strong  in  him,  and  was  too  much  in- 
dulged, and  produced  a  needless  languor  of  interest  on  the 
parish  side  of  his  work.  But  it  was  a  natural  feeling 
under  the  circumstances,  and  for  such  as  he  was.  He  was 
not  by  nature  a  pliant  man,  especially  in  regard  to  his 
intellectual  tastes,  and,  as  he  considered  them,  necessities  ; 
it  was  not  easy  for  him  to  shape  his  habits  and  demands 
to  new  conditions.  He  was  not  one  whom,  on  the  whole, 
it  would  seem  easy  to  transplant  to  an  unaccustomed  soil. 
Yet  he  went  into  his  new  work  with  no  half-heartedness. 
He  had  enthusiasm  in  it,  and  his  enthusiasm  increased  as 
he  went  on.  He  was  pleasantly  and  greatly  stimulated  by 
the  presence  of  a  group  of  eager  inquirers  after  truth,  which 
he  at  once  began  to  draw  about  him  from  the  students  of 
the  University.  No  obstacle  or  discouragement  to  the 
freest  access  to  them  was  for  a  moment  thought  of  by  the 
distinguished  President  and  able  Professors  of  the  Univer- 
sity, who  rather  welcomed  the  presence  and  influence  of 
so  ripe,  full,  and  honest  a  mind  among  them.  This  was 
not  exactly  like  the  general  habit  and  policy  of  orthodox 
New  England  ;  and  it  was  better.  He  felt  the  bracing  air 
of  this  free  and  courageous  thinking ;  it  was  tonic  and 
wholesome,  and  he  breathed  it  with  a  rejoicing  conscious- 
ness of  strength  and  health,  girding  himself  at  the  same 
time  to  meet  the  claims  now  made  upon  him  for  his  best 
thought.  His  roots  took  hold.  His  work  extended. 
He  was  wanted  to  help  at  many  things,  to  lend  a 
hand  at  manv  constructive  businesses  where  his  trained 
mind  was  capable  of  rendering  valuable  service,  and  he 
was  always  ready  if  the  thing  to  be  done  was  good.  His 
times  and  employments  were  all  fore-assigned  :  just  as  much 


MEMOIR.  23 


the  hour  for  recreation  and  society  as  that  for  study  or 
lecture ;  his  assignments  were  not  made  as  an  ideal 
to  be  feebly  aimed  at,  but  as  appointments  to  be  kept, 
only  to  be  departed  from  for  cause.  The  amount  of 
work  which  his  method  and  his  industry  enabled  him  to 
accomplish,  was  astonishing.  The  secret  of  it  was  that 
there  had  to  be  no  whipping  himself  up  to  labor  for  which 
he  was  reluctant.  He  rejoiced  in  it.  Therefore  his  work 
was  done  well ;  not  only  in  time,  not  only  in  full  measure, 
but  in  quality  it  was  thorough.  It  will  show  more  clearly 
if  we  particularize.  The  eye  sweeping  the  whole  broad 
field  at  a  glance,  does  not  see  what  it  covers. 

Here  was  first,  his  society.  It  was  new :  or  rather  as  yet 
it  was  not.  Its  organization  was  to  be  his  care.  Its  con- 
stituency, composed  of  elements  unused  to  coalesce,  were 
to  learn  the  possibility  of  a  common  worship,  of  unity  of 
spirit,  of  co-operating  diversities.  No  long  history  of  a 
memorable  past,  no  honored  traditions  of  loyal  genera- 
tions were  here  to  hold  a  church  together,  when  antagoniz- 
ing opinions  and  conflicting  tastes  should  kindle  strife  and 
threaten  cleavage,  till  the  strain  should  be  over.  They 
were  to  find  in  him,  if  at  all  —  in  the  tone  of  his  spirit,  the 
quality  of  his  manhood  and  his  interpretation  of  truth  —  the 
bond  that  would  make  their  union  possible  and  their 
growth  sure.  How  it  proved  is  best  shown  by  quoting  the 
words  of  Mr.  James  B.  Gott,  who,  more  than  an  eye-witness 
and  recorder,  was  a  living  member  of  the  body  : 

Mr.  Brigham's  ministry  here  was  a  constant  and  steady 
sunshine.  You  could  not  designate  any  discourse  as  being 
pre-eminent,  for  there  were  no  contrasts.  He  never  wrote, 
nor  delivered,  to  my  knowledge,  a  poor  or  unfinished  dis- 


24  MEMOIR. 


course.  They  were  always  fair,  impartial,  logical  and 
exhaustive  ....  He  was  never  sensational.  His  courses 
of  lectures  in  the  church  on  representative  and  historical 
men  connected  with  the  Christian  Church,  and  on  the 
religions  of  the  world,  were  very  instructive  and  interest- 
ing  


In  regard  to  Mr.  Brigham's  work  and  influence:  when 
he  came  here  he  was  the  pioneer  of  the  Unitarian  body  in 
this  place.  There  had  been  a  few  discourses  delivered  in 
the  Court  House  before  he  came,  but  no  organization,  I 
believe.  Mr.  Brigham  perfected  the  organization,  and 
meetings  were  held  in  the  Court  House  for  a  time.  The 
new  Methodist  Church  was  completed  soon  after,  and 
through  the  aid  largely  of  the  Unitarian  Association,  the 
old  Methodist  Church  was  secured  for  the  Unitarian 
Society,  and  services  have  since  been  held  there 

Mr.  Brigham  was  transparently  honest.  No  one  could 
have  in  him  an  ally  for  trickery  or  questionable  practices. 
Those  who  came  to  his  church  in  expectation  that  their 
bad  morals  were  to  be  glossed  over,  soon  found  their  mis- 
take. 


All  the  while  he  rightly  understood  that  the  main  reason 
for  his  being  in  Ann  Arbor  was  that  there  was  the  Univer- 
sity with  its  students,  many  hundred  intelligent  young  men 
gathered  from  widely-separated  communities,  and  destined 
on  the  completion  of  their  studies  to  be  scattered  again 
yet  more  widely.  The  end,  to  be  sure,  which  he  kept  in 
sight  as  that  with  which  he  was  specially  charged,  was  to 
do  missionary  work  on  this  spot  and  in  the  region  round 
about:  it  was  the  dissemination  of  Christian  truth  as  he 
held  it,  and  as  it  was  generally  held  by  the  Unitarians. 
Of  the  means  at  his  command  by  which  to  accomplish  that 
end,  he  accounted  a  hearing  by  so  many  of  these  students 
as  he  could  interest  in  his  word,  his  chief  reliance.  At 
the  renting  of  the  pews  in  the  church  when  the  society 


MEMOIB.  25 


first  occupied  its  building  in  February,  1867,  it  was  "voted, 
that  not  more  than  sixty  pews  should  be  rented  in  all,  the 
rest  beins:  free  for  the  use.of  the  students  of  the  Univer- 
sity." 

In  November,  1865,  he  began  a  course  of  Sunday  after- 
noon exercises,  for  college  students  especially,  more  than 
forty  joining  the  class  which  he  thus  instructed.  Taking 
up  first  the  Gospel  of  Matthew  for  exposition,  he  gave  a 
series  of  essays  the  following  year  on  the  character  and 
authenticitv  of  the  books  of  the  New  Testament,  which 
were  followed  by  oreneral  conversation  and  discussion. 
This  year  the  class  numbered  over  sixty.  The  next  year, 
with  about  the  same  number,  he  considered  the  doctrine 
of  the  Future  Life,  reading  essays  upon  the  teachings  of 
the  Scriptures  concerning  it.  This  Bible  class  continued 
to  receive  his  most  careful  and  thorough  teaching  during 
the  whole  time  of  his  residence  in  Ann  Arbor.  He  gave 
ample  time  and  study  to  preparation  for  it ;  wrote  out  his 
papers  fully ;  carried  inquiries  on  through  successive  exer- 
cises, laying  plans  for  weeks  and  months  forward.  One 
year  he  had  eight  essays  on  Proverbs,  nine  on  the  Law  of 
Moses,  and  eight  lectures  on  Palestine ;  while  the  whole 
number  belonging  to  the  class  went  up  to  "two  hundred 
and  sixty-four,  from  more  than  one  hundred  and  eighty 
different  towns  and  cities  in  twenty  States."  Another  year 
the  whole  number  was  two  hundred  and  forty-nine ;  yet 
another,  three  hundred  and  twenty-four.  In  nothing  that 
he  did,  did  he  regard  himself  as  effecting  so  much  in  the 
line  of  missionary  work,  as  in  the  teaching  of  his  Bible 
class. 

"  Mr.  Brigham's  influence  with  the  students,"  says  Mr. 


26  MEMOIB. 


Gott,  "  in  disseminating  liberal  views  cannot  be  estimated. 
He  was  the  teacher  of  a  large  Bible  class  which  assembled 
at  half-past  nine  each  Sunday  morning  to  hear  his  essay, 
and  to  ask  questions.  Many  of  them  at  the  close  either 
went  to  other  churches  or  to  their  rooms;  some  remained 
to  attend  church  services ;  but  all  over  the  land  are  scat- 
tered the  members  of  Mr.  Brigham's  Bible  class  ;  many  of 
them  editors  of  secular  journals;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  the  liberality  of  many  such  journals  in  the  West  is  the 
natural  outgrowth  of  this  Bible  class." 

Rev.  Mr.  Shippen,  in  a  memorial  sermon  preached  at 
Taunton,  presents  a  pleasant  and  suggestive  picture  of  the 
harvest  that  has  come  of  this  widely  scattered  seed.  He 
journeyed  with  Mr.  Brigham  across  the  State  of  Michigan 
to  attend  a  Chicago  Conference.  "  On  the  same  day's 
journey  came  forward  in  the  train  a  young  physician,  set- 
tled in  an  inland  city,  gratefully  testifying  of  the  valued 
instruction  of  the  Bible  class  that  has  enabled  him,  amid 
his  fresh  studies  of  the  new  science,  still  to  cling  to  his 
faith  in  the  living  God.  One  hears  of  some  young  man 
eager  to  plant  a  new  church  of  the  liberal  faith  in  the 
Northwest,  or  perhaps  a  pillar  of  strength  in  some  strug- 
gling church  already  started,  and  discovers,  as  the  secret 
of  his  enthusiasm,  that  he  was  a  member  of  that  Bible 
class.  One  hears  of  a  young  editor  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
giving  his  secular  paper  a  tone  of  liberal  religious  faith, 
and  discovers  that  he  also  graduated  at  Ann  Arbor  and 
listened  to  this  preacher.  In  the  editorial  service  of  the 
Northwest,  with  deep  satisfaction,  Mr.  Brigham  counted 
thirty  of  his  pupils." 

In  November,  1870,  he  formed  a  Bible  class  of  ladies, 


MEMOIR.  27 


which  he  taught  in  private  houses,  numbering  in  all  twenty- 
seven,  the  first,  year,  and  increasing  afterwards.  Weekly 
social  gatherings  were  held  in  private  houses,  or  in  the 
vestry  of  the  church  during  some  or  all  the  winters  of  his 
residence  in  Ann  Arbor,  and  were  largely  attended. 
Throughout  the  community  and  among  clergymen  and 
people  of  all  denominations,  by  his  character,  breadth  of 
learning  and  industry,  he  acquired  a  continually  increasing 
personal  respect,  and  commanded  for  the  before  unknown 
and  much  misrepresented  doctrines  of  his  Church  a  far  more 
respectful  attention  and  examination  than  they  had  been 
accustomed  to  receive.  Appointed  by  Governor  Bagley  a 
member  of  the  State  Board  of  Health,  for  which  position 
he  had  shown  admirable  fitness  by  his  interest  in  sanitary 
questions  and  his  knowledge  of  them,  he  wrote  and 
labored  in  this  field,  as  in  all  others,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
leading  study  among  the  subjects  of  his  investigation.  In 
this,  as  in  everything  he  undertook,  he  was  a  worker.  Sin- 
ecures were  not  for  him  —  would  not  know  what  to  do 
with  him.  If  offered  any  place  for  the  honor  of  it  merely, 
he  would  disappoint  expectation  by  directly  finding  some- 
thing to  do  in  it,  if  that  was  possible.  Common  schools, 
institutions  of  education  of  every  grade,  measures  to  pro- 
mote temperance  and  social  benefit  in  all  kinds,  had  all 
his  steady  and  efficient  aid. 

He  was  blamed  sometimes  for  making  his  parish  work 
secondary  to  his  efforts  to  be  heard  and  felt  by  the  young 
men  of  the  University,  to  his  lectures  at  Meadville,  and 
perhaps  to  missionary  work  at  large  in  the  West:  not 
only  secondary  some  would  say,  but  placing  it  so  far  after 
the  others  that  he  seemed  not  to  take  a  warm  interest  in  it. 


28  MEMOIR. 


thus  neglecting  an  opportunity  to  strengthen  the  Church 
he  represented  in  that  place.  An  intelligent  parishioner 
already  quoted,  who  says,  to  be  sure,  that  he  was  "  a  mis- 
sionary to  the  students  in  the  University  more  than  a  pas- 
tor to  the  Unitarian  Society,"  yet  intimates  no  felt  want  in 
the  latter  sphere  of  duty,  and  testifies  to  his  perfecting  the 
organization  of  the  society,  and  to  his  very  strong  hold 
upon  his  hearers  by  his  preaching.  Answering  also,  as  he 
did,  faithfully  and  conscientiously  every  claim  upon  him  for 
the  usually  appointed  services  of  a  pastor,  making  many 
warm  friends  among  his  parishioners,  and  respected  by  all, 
it  seems  but  just  to  allow  such  a  man,  on  the  ground,  never 
lukewarm,  never  sparing  himself,  conscientious  in  the  use 
of  his  time  and  powers,  to  have  been  the  best  judge  of 
how  his  labors  should  be  apportioned  and  bestowed. 
Another  might  well  have  preferred  other  methods,  possi- 
bly. He  knew  where  his  own  strength  lay,  and  very 
probably  chose  wisely. 

Next  to  his  interest  in  the  students  at  x\nn  Arbor,  was 
that  he  took  in  the  students  preparing  for  the  ministry  at 
Meadville,  Pennsylvania.  They  were  fewer,  but  they  were 
recruits  for  the  ranks  of  his  own  profession,  of  which  he 
had  had  a  large  experience  and  cherished  a  very  high 
ideal.  His  appointment  as  non-resident  Professor  of  Ec- 
clesiastical History  and  Biblical  Archcelogy  in  the  school 
at  Meadville,  in  1866,  foUowed  close  upon  his  removal  to 
Michigan.  '*  He  gave  lectures  twice  a  year  for  ten  years, '^ 
writes  President  Livermore  "  embracing  in  all  more  than 
one  hundred  and  fifty  lectures  upon  Ecclesiastical  History, 
Palestine,  the  other  Bible  lands,  the  laws  of  Moses,  the 
Psalms,  the  book  of  Proverbs,  the  book  of  Job,   and  the 


MEMOIR.  29 


books  of  the  New  Testament,  besides  many  miscellaneous 
addresses,  in  the  school,  the  church,  and  before  the  Literary 
Union." 

We  may  fitly  add  here  what  President  Livermore  has  said 
more  generally  of  his  traits  of  character,  his  acquirements 
and  labors  in  other  professional  and  non-professional  fields, 
as  they  display  the  sources  of  his  power,  and  of  the  wide 
and  lasting  influence  which  he  exerted  upon  the  young 
men  who  came  under  his  instruction  during  their  training 
for  the  ministry,  and  whom  he  never  failed  to  inspire  with 
a  genuine  respect  for  his  integrity  of  mind  and  his  high 
and  rigorous  moral  standard,  and  with  a  cordial  admira- 
tion for  his  great  knowledge  and  industry. 

We  deeply  feel  his  loss  in  Meadville In  tem- 
perament he  was  a  happy  combination  of  English  sturdi- 
ness  and  bottom,  with  the  mercurial  vivacity  and  quickness 
of  the  French,  from  whom  he  was  descended  on  his 
maternal  side.  This  conjunction  gave  him  at  once  rapidity 
and  endurance  in  his  work. 

Few  of  our  ministers  swept  a  wider  field  of  accom- 
plishments or  effected  as  much  in  solid  work  as  our  de- 
parted friend, 

A  critic  and  lover  of  music,  enjoying  wit  and  humor, 
sincere  in  his  social  sympathies  and  friendships,  stalwart  in 
his  profession  and  denomination,  an  omnivorous  reader  of 
books  and  periodicals,  a  keen  observer  and  high-toned 
judge  of  current  events  in  Church  and  State,  loyal  always 
to  the  highest  principle,  and  indignant  at  every  wrong  and 
outspoken  in  denouncing  it,  his  word  and  his  deed  were 
uniformly  cast  into  the  scale  of  Christian  progress,  liberal 
but  not  lax  ideas,  and  the  universal  welfare  of  mankind. 

Without  being  eminent  as  a  specialist  in  any  one 
department,  he  was  able  and  distinguished  in  his  wide 
grasp  of  scholarship  in  history,  biography,  politics,  ethics, 
theology,  literature  and  the  arts. 

Where   shall    we   be    able   to   match   his  encyclopedic 


so  MEMOIR. 


attainments,  or  find  one,  at  least,  in  our  clerical  brother- 
hood, at  once  so  exact  and  trustworthy  in  details,  and  at 
the  same  time  so  comprehensive  in  his  outlook! 

■  Not  naturally  endued  with  a  brilliant  or  poetic  imagi- 
nation, nor  predisposed  to  an  easy  faith,  his  strength  lay 
in  a  solid  understanding  enriched  by  choice  culture,  and 
in  unswerving  convictions  of  moral  and  religious  prin- 
ciples to  which  he  adhered  in  all  circumstances  of  life. 

We  shall  miss  him  much  and  mourn  him  sincerely  in 
many  quarters,  in  our  church  and  denominational  gather- 
ings, our  literary  associations,  our  periodicals,  in  our 
sanitary  and  other  reforms.  He  has  left  his  mark  on 
many  young  men  whose  influence  will  not  soon  pass  away, 
but  extend  in  widening  circles  into  the  future." 

Mr.  Brigham  highly  enjoyed  his  visits  to  Meadville. 
The  welcome  which  he  received  from  its  cultivated  and 
hospitable  society,  as  well  as  the  quickening  contact  with 
the  professors  and  students  of  the  Theological  School, 
refreshed  him,  and  gave  him  the  only  recreation  he  knew 
how  to  enjoy,  change  of  employment. 

Though  he  sought  not  the  honors  of  authorship  in  any 
extended  work,  he  wrote  much  —  few  more  —  and  much 
that  he  wrote  had  solid  merit.  He  contributed  abun- 
dantly to  the  higher  periodical  publications  of  the  Unitarian 
denomination,  the  Christian  Examiner  and  the  Unitarian 
Review,  in  elaborate  articles,  and  furnished  both  to  them 
and  to  the  newspapers  almost  numberless  critical  notices 
of  books,  some  short,  some  quite  extended  and  full.  He 
wrote  for  the  North  American  Review,  the  New  American 
Encyclopedia,  and  for  the  Journal  of  Health.  A  member 
of  the  Oriental  Society,  the  Philological  Society,  and  the 
Social  Science  Association  of  the  countrv,  elected  also  a 
member  of  the  German  Oriental  Society  (which  he  is  said 
to  have  considered  the  greatest  honor  ever  conferred  upon 


MEMOIR.  3 1 


him),  he  wrote,  as  he  read,  in  amount  almost  past  belief, 
on  the  most  varied  topics.  "  He  was  fond,"  says  the 
editor  of  the  Unitarian  Review,  "of  gathering  up  unusual 
and  out-of-the-way  facts  bearing  on  the  religious  doctrines 
and  usages  of  remote  localities  and  peoples,  many  ac- 
counts of  which  he  contributed  to  the  editorial  department 
of  this  Review.  Besides  this  he  prepared  several  elaborate 
and  extended  papers  which  appeared  over  his  own  name. 
Those  on  the  Samaritans,  the  Jews  in  China,  and  the 
characteristics  of  the  Jewish  race,  are  among  the  most 
valuable  that  occur  to  us.  At  the  time  when  his  health 
gave  way  he  was  planning  an  article  on  Japanese  life  and 
literature,  for  which  he  awaited  a  consignment  of  books 
from  Japan." 

We  pr-esume  upon  the  indulgence  of  one  of  his  friends 
(whom  we  cannot  reach  with  a  request  for  permission),  to 
cite  a  passage  here  from  a  private  letter  written  soon  after 
the  death  of  Mr.  Brigham,  to  the  Editor  of  the  Unitarian 
Review.  It  is  Prof.  E..  P.  Evans,  of  Michigan  University, 
who  writes  : 

Florence,  April  9,  1S79. 

The  death  of  our  friend  Mr.  Brigham, 

although  not  wholly  unexpected,  was  a  great  shock  to  us. 
We  knew  him  so  intimately  and  prized  him  so  highly  that 
his  departure  has  left  a  painful  vacancy  in  our  lives.  He 
was,  in  many  respects,  the  most  remarkable  man  I  ever 
knew,  a  full  man  in  every  sense,  in  the  vastness  and 
variety  of  his  learning  and  in  the  breadth  and  universality 
of  his  sympathies.  He  was  interested  in  every  branch  of 
knowledge,  and  could  enter  into  and  appreciate  alike  the 
aspirations  of  the  medieval  ascetic  and  the  aims  of  the 
most  radical  of  modern  scientists.  In  addition  to  his 
intellectual  vigor,  there  was  something  grand  in  the  robust 
moral    character  of  the   man.     Even   those   who  had  no 


32  MEMOIR. 


sympathy  with  his  ideas  did  reverence  to  his  earnestness 
and  uprightness.  A  gentleman  in  Michigan  once  re- 
marked to  me  that  there  was  to  him  something  awe- 
inspiring  in  Mr.  Brigham's  sturdy  and  uncompromising 
inteo;ritv. 

I  wonder  what  disposition  is  to  be  made  of  his  MSS. 
He  left  much  behind  which  ought  to  be  preserved  in  print. 
He  was  singularly  devoid  of  literary  ambition  for  one  who 
was  capable  of  achieving  so  much  in  this  direction.  He 
delivered  courses  of  lectures  at  Ann  Arbor  and  at  Mead- 
ville,  which  ought  to  be  preserved  in  some  permanent 
form.  He  was  convinced,  as  he  once  told  me,  that  he 
could  exert  a  wider  influence  and  do  more  good  by  writing 
for  the  journals  of  the  day,  than  by  putting  his  thoughts 
into  books,  although  he  admitted  that  the  latter  kind  of 
literary  labor  would  probably  secure  for  him  a  more  en- 
during reputation  and  greater  posthumous  fame. 

Though  he  worked  easily  and  with  a  free  will  that  made 
toil  a  pleasure  and  not  a  task-work,  no  constitution  even 
of  iron  could  stand  the  strain  at  which  he  held  himself  to 
it,  while  sedentary  habits  and  the  neglect  of  imperative 
sanitary  laws  were  also  impairing  his  strength.  Perhaps 
he  knew  it,  but  thought  some  warning  more  decisive  than 
he  had  received  would  tell  him  in  time  when  to  desist.  It 
came,  but  not  in  time  to  allow  him  to  retrieve  his  lost 
health.  It  was  not  only  peremptory  but  final.  He 
preached  for  the  last  time  in  Ann  Arbor,  Sunday,  May  13, 
1877. 

There  were  a  few  successive  days  in  May,  1877,  says 
his  friend,  Mr.  Amos  Smith,  on  which  the  weather  was 
like  the  hottest  days  of  July  or  August.  That  Sunday  was 
one  of  them.  He  told  me  that  he  never  was  so  overcome 
with  the  heat,  —  that  he  never,  in  fact,  so  recdly  su^ered 
from  it  while  preaching,  as  on  that  13th  of  May.  But  I 
have  no  doubt  that  part  of  this  suffering  was  owing  to  the 
state  of    his  own  system.     If   he  had   been  in    his  usual 


MEMOIR.  33 


health,  he  could  have  endured  it  as  easily  as  he  had  done 
many  times  before.  He  told  me  that  he  had  not  been 
feeling  well  for  several  days.  It  was  unfortunate  that  just 
at  this  time,  while  feeling  thus  ill,  there  was  a  more  than 
usual  amount  of  literary  work  of  one  kind,  or  another, 
waiting  to  be  attended  to  by  him,  so  that  he  was  kept  hard 
at  work  at  his  desk  day  after  day.  Then  again,  most  un- 
fortunately for  him,  that  period  of  extreme  heat,  —  almost 
unprecedented  for  a  date  so  early,  set  in.  The  illness, 
the  extra  work  and  the  heat  cominsf  toirether,  were  too 
much  even  for  him.  He  manasred,  however,  to  carrv 
through  the  forenoon  services  without  experiencing  anv 
serious  discomfort.  When  the  hour  for  the  evenins:  service 
arrived,  he  had  become  very  ill,  but  resolved  to  fight  his 
way  through  it,  and  did  so. 


After  a  wakeful  and  restless  night  he  rose,  though  feel- 
ing very  ill,  and  succeeded   in  partially  dressing  himself. 
But  the  fight  was  over ;  his  strength  was  broken  ;  his  reso- 
lute will  was  overpowered.    He  became  unconscious.    The 
physicians,  when  summoned,  could  not  but  take  the  most 
serious  view  of  his  case  :  perhaps  looked  with  but  little 
hope  for  his   return   to  consciousness.     He  rallied,  how- 
ever ;  became  able  to  travel,   and  returned   East   to    the 
house  of  a  sister  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  where  he  gradually 
improved  so  far  as  to  read,  write  occasional  letters,  travel 
short  distances,  and  visit  a  few  friends ;  and  he  entertained 
the  thought  of  a  possible  resumption  of  his  work  at  Ann 
Arbor.     But  to  his  physician  and  friends  it  was  but  too 
evident  that  this  was  a  vain  hope.     The  recurrence  of  ill- 
ness became  more  frequent  and  prostrating.     The  utmost 
care  and  kindness  of  friends  could    not  stay  the  falling 
stroke.     On  the   5th  of  September,   1878,  a  fresh  attack 
laid  him  helpless,  in  which  condition  he  remained  till  the 
19th  of  February,  1879.  when  the  scene  closed. 

3 


34  MEMO  IB. 


Mr.  Brigham  did  not  marry.  Yet  the  society  of  sensible 
and  pleasing  women  attracted  him  strongly,  and  he  sought 
it  as  one  of  his  chief  pleasures.  When  he  needed  social 
recreation,  he  looked  for  it  in  its  purest  and  most  perfect 
forms  in  domestic  life.  Never  a  taint  of  reproach  is  known 
to  have  sullied  or  touched  his  good  name.  "  Although  a 
bachelor,"  writes  a  parishioner  in  Taunton,  already  quoted, 
"  he  was  very  fond  of  woman's  society.  His  manner  was 
always  frank  and  cordial,  never  flattering  or  delusive." 
"  He  was  received,"  says  Mr.  Gott  of  Ann  Arbor,  "  into 
the  homes  and  society  of  all  denominations ;  he  was  a  wel- 
come guest  at  the  family  board  and  in  the  family  circle ; 
yet  there  was  a  kind  of  dignity  and  reserve  about  him 
which  never  let  you  feel  assured  that  you  were  quite  in 
contact  with  him.  He  was  not  a  favorite  with  the  ladies. 
One  who  had  seen  much  of  him  said  to  me,  '  I  am  never 
so  near  Mr.  Brigham  as  when  he  is  in  the  pulpit,  and  I  in 
my  pew.'  " 

In  paying  this  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  friend,  I  would 
not  be  blindly  eulogistic  ;  but  I  cannot,  in  justice  to  him, 
forbear  to  say  that  he  was  a  man  not  only  likely  to  be  mis- 
understood in  some  things,  but  very  open  to  certain 
misunderstandings  which  told  against  him  unfairly.  Peo- 
ple thought  him  so  easy  to  read,  that  they  read  him 
carelessly;  half  read  him;  not  half.  He  was  easy  to  read, 
as  they  thought,  but  too  often  they  only  read  the  few  large 
letters  and  lines  of  the  title  page,  —  his  manners,  —  which 
gave  a  very  inadequate  and,  in  some  respects,  misleading 
idea  of  the  book.  And  the  hasty  judgment  which  such 
readers  tossed  off  now  and  then,  gave  pain  to  friends  who 
had  read  him  more  attentively  and  closely. 


MEMOIR.  35 


For  example.  We  have  said  that  he  had  large  self- 
esteem.  This  caused  him  to  assert  himself  more  forvvardly 
than  those  of  another  temper,  but  with  an  equally  high 
estimate  of  themselves,  might  have  done,  or  might  have 
thought  becoming.  He  was  not  unconscious  of  this  man- 
ner. He  began  to  detect  in  himself  when  a  young  man 
"  a  tendency  to  be  positive,  dogmatic  and  decided.  I  am 
too  apt  by  a  sentence  to  settle  very  doubtful  questions ; 
too  apt  to  give  my  own  opinions  as  if  that  settled  the  case. 
This  defect,  I  have  no  doubt,  leads  in  a  great  measure  to 
that  abruptness  noticeable  in  my  manner  of  speaking  and 
reading."  Thus  he  lowered  himself,  as  many  of  large  self- 
esteem  do  not.  And,  withal,  he  was  modest  in  his 
self-valuation.  Some  who  thought  they  understood  him 
did  not  know  it,  and  would  have  said  it  was  not  so  :  be- 
cause he  had  not  tact.  He  had  as  little  as  any  man  I  ever 
knew  who  was  so  wise.  The  art  and  grace  of  approach- 
ing another's  personality  acceptably,  with  a  skillful  defer- 
ence to  his  prejudice,  or  mood,  or  special  pedantry,  he 
entirely  lacked.  He  had  not  in  his  make  the  fine  instru- 
ments of  a  sympathetic  perception,  by  which  to  read 
sensitively  character  in  its  more  timid  and  delicate  organi- 
zation, its  secret  affections  and  motions  :  did  not  perceiv^e 
when  he  trenched  upon  a  self-reserving  pride  or  privacy,  or 
stop  aloof  from  the  door  of  a  soul's  penetralia.  With  a 
clumsy,  frank  unceremoniousness,  he  dropped  down  upon 
the  tender  places  of  another's  conceit  or  feeling  without 
warning,  blunt,  dogmatic,  impervious  to  the  silent  resent- 
ment, or  good-natured  retort  which  he  sometimes  received 
in  return.  But  if  he  gave  offence  at  the  beginning  by  his 
assumptions,  he  was  before  long  found  to  be  thoroughly 


$6  MEMOIR. 


genial,  kind  and  chivalrously  honorable,  and  his  seemingly 
self-exalting  comparisons  were  soon  recognized  as  not  so 
much  the  claim  of  superiority,  as  the  guileless  overflow  of 
an  exuberant  and  joyous  consciousness  of  wealth  and  a 
glad  exhibition  of  his  treasure,  without  a  thought  that  he 
could  be  humiliatins:  the  listener. 

He  was  never  the  envious  detractor  of  the  learning  of 
others.  He  honored  genuine  scholarship  wherever  he 
found  it.  His  enthusiasm  for  men  of  great  and  good 
learning  was  as  hearty  as  his  criticism  of  the  pretentious 
was  pungent  and  unsparing.  His  pride  took  the  form, 
not  of  showing  that  the  justly  famous  thought  highly  of 
him,  but  of  showing  that  he  honored  them,  and  knew  how 
to  appreciate  them.  His  boast  was  of  his  advantages  and 
opportunities,  not  of  any  distinction  they  had  reflected  on 
himself. 

The  infrequency  with  which  he  volunteered  extempo- 
raneous speech  before  public  assemblies,  or  even  in  the 
larger  gatherings  of  his  professional  brethren,  I  am  sure  is 
rightly  ascribed  by  Rev.  Dr.  Bellows,  in  his  discourse  at 
Mr.  Brigham's  funeral,  to  his  modesty  and  self-distrust. 

He  was  very  transparent.  He  knew  not  how  to  hide 
himself.  Conscious  of  being  habitually  under  the  guidance 
of  a  pure  and  honest  purpose,  he  had  small  occasion  to  do 
so,  and  never  seemed  to  think  of  it.  His  guilelessness 
and  freedom  from  suspicion  were  almost  childlike.  "I 
like  men  who  are  open,"  he  wrote  in  his  Thought-Book, 
"  who  have  no  concealment.  This  is  my  own  nature,  if  I 
know  anything  of  myself.  I  like  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  everybody.  And  if  there  are  any  over  whose  success 
I  rejoice,  it  is  those  noble  souls  who  carry  their  hearts  in 


MEMOIR.  37 


their  hands.  God  bless  G.  ;  he  has  his  minor  faults,  but 
his  nature  is  of  the  noblest." 

Some  would  have  said  that  he  was  a  self-indulgent  man, 
because  a  lover  of  g^ood  dinins^  and  of  creature  comforts 
be3"ond  what  strictly  comports  with  the  ideal  character  of 
the  self-denying  and  spiritually-minded  clerg\nTian. 

He  certainly  did  not  affect  indifference  to  the  good 
cheer  of  a  bounteous  table.  But  they  who  suppose  that 
high  or  free  living:  was  a  necessitv  which  controlled  him, 
or  that  it  had  a  foremost  place  in  his  thoughts,  or  that  the 
prospect  of  missing  a  sumptuous  entertainment  and  find- 
ing a  plain  and  frugal  meal  in  place  of  it  would  seriously 
disturb  his  equanimity,  were  far  from  knowing  lijm.  We 
have  already  cited  some  words  of  a  Taunton  friend,  who 
knew  his  tastes  and  habits  in  this  respect  if  anybody  did, 
and  who,  it  was  seen,  warmly  protests  against  such  a  mis- 
taken judgment  of  him.  Many  another  one,  privileged  to 
be  his  host,  would  gratefully  testify  how  easy  a  guest  he 
was  to  care  for  and  to  content.  He  partook  of  the  profuse 
luxuries  of  the  rich  and  open-handed,  with  a  keen  zest  and 
a  healthy  enjoyment,  but  he  never  avoided  the  simpler  fare 
of  the  board  at  which  a  just  economy  compelled  a  narrow 
range  of  choice,  or  pained  the  hospitality  that  did  the  best 
it  could  with  limited  means,  by  w^ord  or  look  that  implied 
discontent.  His  activity  of  mind  was  incessant,  his  body 
vigorous  and  full  of  life.  The  working  brain  must  be 
nourished  as  well  as  the  laboring  muscle.  His  appetite, 
hearty  and  healthy,  was  not  gratified  at  the  expense  of  his 
intellect,  which  it  did  not  stupefy  or  becloud,  but,  judging 
from  his  extraordinary  mental  energy  and  restless  dili- 
gence, to  its  repairing  and  support. 


38  MEMOIR. 


After  a  social  evening  entertainment  in  New  York,  when 
once  at  home  on  a  vacation,  we  find  this  note  in  the 
"Thought  Book  :  "  "There  is  one  custom,  however,  on  such 
occasions  which,  if  I  should  ever  attain  the  dignity  of  a 
housekeeper,  I  certainly  would  have  corrected.  I  mean 
the  custom  of  passing  round  eatables.  This  stupid  idea, 
which  has  its  origin  in  desires  wholly  sensual,  is  worthy  to 
be  banished  from  the  house  of  every  decent  citizen.  In  the 
first  place,  are  there  not  three  meals,  a  number  amply  suf- 
ficient, and  more  than  sufficient,  to  satisfy  the  appetite  and 
support  life  comfortably?  Why  do  we  need  a  fourth  meal.'* 
For  nothing  else  than  to  pamper  the  appetite  with  useless 
and  perrwcious  luxuries.  Immediately  before  sleeping,  we 
all  know  that  eating  must  be  extremelv  hurtful :  more 
especially  when  the  articles  are  of  a  rich  and  delicate  kind. 
Yet  strange  to  say,  and  true  as  strange,  everybody  thinks 
that  he  must  fall  in  with  this  senseless  idea,  and  we  see 
everywhere  the  evening  parade  of  eatables  to  a  greater  or 
less  extent  luxurious." 

Mr.  Brigham  lived  a  bachelor.  We  pass  the  term  "  vol- 
untary celibate,"  applied  to  him  by  Dr.  Bellows  without 
challenge.  But  we  cannot  accept  as  sufficient  proof  of  his 
indifference  to  the  satisfactions  of  domestic  privilege  and 
the  happiness  of  having  a  home  of  his  own  the  fact  that 
this  friend  never  heard  that  he  had  "  a  single  temptation 
or  disposition  to  change  his  bachelor  state,"  or  that  he 
never  knew  of  his  having  "  a  desire  to  yield  up  the  satis- 
factions of  learning  to  any  domestic  yearning."  He  had, 
we  are  persuaded,  and  the  persuasion  rests  on  grounds  we 
think  substantial,  at  times  positive  and  strong  yearnings 
for  the  home  society  and  sanctities.     Had  it  happened  to 


MEMOIR.  39 


him  to  assume,  under  fit  and  favoring  circumstances,  the 
obligations,  and  to  experience  the  felicities  of  domestic  ties, 
to  which  there  was  no  barring  incapacity  or  disinclination 
in  his  nature,  he  would  not,  we  believe,  have  been  found 
always  preferring  the  study  to  the  nursery.  He  would  have 
been  neither  insensible  to  the  supreme  earthly  blessing 
flowing  from  family  affections,  nor  unaffected  by  their  bene- 
ficent influence  upon  life  and  character.  He  was  made 
to  be  even  a  completer  man  than  he  was.  We  presume 
that  he  knew  that,  and  knew  what  would  have  helped  to 
make  him  such.  In  1852,  he  wrote  to  a  friend :  "This  is  the 
first  day  of  my  ninth  year  of  service  in  this  ministry,  and  I 
am  frightened  at  the  retrospect.  The  awful  pile  of  manu- 
scripts realizing  almost  the  old  suggestion  of  the  'barrel,' 
the  children  grown  to  be  men  and  women,  the  families 
removed  and  broken  up,  the  parish  calls  counted  by 
thousands  (I  have  made  six  thousand  in  these  eight  years), 
the  long  list  of  marriages,  the  longer  list  of  deaths,  all 
the  simple  common-place  phenomena  of  a  country  minis- 
ter's life,  what  a  varied,  strange  picture  do  they  make  !  I 
know  a  little  of  your  old  complaint,  and  confess  for  the 
occasion  that  it  makes  me  feel  rather  blue.  And  yet,  I 
have  not  got  tired  of  the  ministry,  have  you  ?  With  all  its 
drawbacks  I  love  it,  I  enjoy  it,  I  would  not  change  it  for 
any  other.  I  get  low-spirited  sometimes  with  the  feeling 
that  I  am  growing  rusty,  dull,  and  hopelessly  selfish ;  but 
something  or  other  comes  up  to  clear  the  atmosphere,  and 
it  is  all  right  again.  One  thing  I  envy  you,  and  that  is 
your  enjoyment  of  a  home.  It  is  vastly  convenient,  but  I 
am  convinced  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone. 
This  boasted  freedom  is  a  humbug   after  all."     And   a 


40  MEMOIR. 


month  later  to  the  same  :  "  O !  domestic  martyr,  rival  of 
that  mythical  old  matron,  whose  children  abounded  within 
the  narrow  compass  of  a  shoe,  I  pity  and  I  envy  you.  The 
nox  child  greets  with  filial  confidence.*  Lonely  I  tread 
the  desert  land,  and  can  only  send  love  and  kisses  to 
the  children  of  friends."  He  found  the  most  congenial 
society,  that  to  which  he  always  turned  spontaneously  as 
most  refreshing  and  wholesome,  not  in  the  club  house,  but 
in  the  family  circle.  He  had  a  livelier  sympathy  with 
children  than  was  generally  known,  and  understood 
them  better,  perhaps,  than  he  did  any  other  class  of  per- 
sons. He  was  mirthful  and  full  of  animal  spirits,  and  the 
children  acknowledsred  him  to  be  of  their  oruild.  His 
enjoyment  of  the  society  of  pleasing  and  cultured  women 
has  been  alreadv  remarked,  and  it  was  one  of  the  most 
constant  and  obvious  traits  in  his  character. 

No  attempt  will  here  be  made  to" analyze  Mr.  Brigham's 
mental  traits  and  powers,  or  to  estimate  the  quality  of  his 
intellectual  and  professional  work.  This  is  most  admira- 
bly and  sufficiently  done  in  the  discriminating,  just  and 
affectionate  funeral  discourse  of  Rev.  Dr.  Bellows,  which 
follows  this  memoir.  I  will  onlv  mention  one  or  two  traits 
of  which  I  happen  to  have  had  opportunities  of  close 
observ^ation  in  the  days  of  our  young  manhood,  which  linger 
still  as  salient  points  in  the  memory  of  that  time. 

*  I  do  not  presume  to  say  what  this  sentence  may  mean.  A  whim- 
sical pretence  of  pedantry  often  substituted  a  Latin  for  an  English 
word  in  Mr.  Brigham's  conversation,  or  correspondence  with  his  inti- 
mate friends.  I  venture  to  interpret  his  reply  to  the  father  of  a 
family  complaining  a  little  of  loss  of  sleep  caused  by  the  night  cries 
of  his  children,  thus :  "  The  child  at  night  greets  [grieves  —  cries] 
with  a  filial  confidence  that  his  calls  will  be  heard  by  parental  ears. 


and  answered." 


MEMO  IB.  41 


He  had  a  great  love  of  humor ;  his  fund  of  spirits  was 
seldom  low ;  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous  rarely  slept  long. 
These  qualities,  combined  with  his  extraordinary  memory, 
made  him  a  most  agreeable  companion  for  a  walk  or  a 
social  hour.  He  was  a  sincere,  though  not  an  indiscrimi- 
nate, admirer  of  Dickens.  It  was  only  necessary'  to 
indicate  the  point  at  which  a  recitation  from  this  author 
should  begin.  He  would  take  it  up  at  the  designated 
place,  and  with  an  astonishing  verbal  accuracy,  especially 
not  missing  the  least  of  those  little  felicitous  turns  of 
expression  in  which  lay  and  trickled  the  fun,  would  go  on 
for  pages  through  the  descriptions  of  Dick  Swiveller's 
grotesque  gravity,  or  shrewd  Sam  Weller's  observations  on 
men  and  things,  inclusive  of  the  domestic  crises  in  the 
Weller  family.  His  hilarious  jesting  was  sometimes  fol- 
lowed by  twinges  of  sharp  regret,  and  called  forth 
expressions  of  sincere  penitence  from  his  sensitive  con- 
science ;  for  his  conscience  was  very  true  and  tender,  his 
self-arraignments  were  frequent,  strict  and  honest,  and  his 
merry  moods  were  balanced  by  a  sincere  and  unfailing 
reverence.  He  was  serious  and  altosrether  earnest  when  it 
was  befitting  to  be  so.  No  untimely  levity  marred  the 
dignity  of  his  speech  or  manner  when  grave  subjects 
were  under  consideration,  or  weighty  duties  were  to  be 
enforced.  His  religiousness  was  simple,  natural,  healthy, 
and  of  his  central  self.  It  was  never  as  to  an  unwelcome 
or  an  irksome  office  that  he  turned  from  social  freedom 
and  pleasure  to  any  occasion  demanding  sober  thought  or 
sober  utterance.  It  was  not  he  who  sought  to  give  to  the 
conversation  in  which  he  participated  a  turn  from  high 
themes  and  deep  questions  to  mere  pleasantries  and  empty 
witticisms. 


42  MEMOIR. 


His  mental  processes  must  have  been  very  swift  without 
being  loose  and  inexact.  His  rapidity  of  reading  was 
inconceivable  to  common  minds.  He  took  the  new  book 
or  the  fresh  Review  aside  for  a  little  while,  and  in  an 
incredibly  short  time  came  back  to  report  what  he  had  found - 
in  it,  and  to  give  an  opinion  of  its  merit.  We  doubted  if 
he  had  had  time  to  get  through  it  in  any  fashion,  much 
more,  time  to  possess  himself  intelligently  of  its  contents. 
We  proclaimed  the  doubt.  "Question  me,"  he  would 
answer,  "on  any  part  from  the  first  page  to  the  last."  We 
were  compelled  to  admit  at  the  end  that  he  had  borne  the 
examination  triumphantly.  And  he  had  seized  the  mean- 
ing. It  was  his  own,  henceforth,  ready  for  use.  His 
knowledge  did  not  encumber  him,  nor  befog  his  sight.  He 
had  passed  a  judgment  on  the  worth  and  truth  of  what  he 
had  read.  His  thought  was  free,  firm  and  strong,  as  well 
as  nimble.  His  acquisitions  were  assorted  and  available. 
He  could  pack  his  discourses  close  with  fresh,  apposite, 
suggestive  instruction  as  few  could. 

One  likes  to  know  what  he  himself  thought  of  his  much 
reading.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  and  a  half  years  he 
wrote  :  "  From  an  observation  of  my  own  mental  habits  I 
am  sometimes  inclined  to  think  that  a  great  deal  that  I  get 
over  is  transitory  to  me.  I  find  it  often  difBcult,  even 
immediately  after  I  have  read  a  passage,  to  recall  it.  Cer- 
tainly the  words  escape  me  :  —  usually  all  but  the  principal 
meaning.  It  is  physically  impossible,  I  know,  for  one  to 
recollect  much  of  what  one  reads  ;  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  one  would  not  find  it  better  to  think  more  and 
read  less.  A  few  ideas,  daily  pondered  over,  would,  w^e 
might  think,  do  more  to  enlarge  the  mind,  than  stores  of 


MEMOIR.  43 


lore  gone  through,  whether  rapidly  or  slowly."  We  meet 
with  the  same  thing  again  in  his  notes,  months  later, 
in  nearly  the  same  form.  He  thought  that  the  demands 
for  the  composition  of  sermons,  when  he  should  be  actu- 
ally at  work  in  his  profession,  might  correct  this  dispropor- 
tion between  his  reading  and  his  thinking,  as  it  probably  did 
in  some  degree.  I  cannot  but  think  that  he  was  right  in 
his  judgment  that  he  read  too  much:  —  unless  we  conclude 
that  the  result  of  reading  less  would  have  been,  not  more 
thinking,  but  less,  which  is  possible.  His  reading  no 
doubt  stimulated  his  mind,  but  whether  it  strengthened  it 
may  be  questioned.  Self-compelling,  sustained,  indepen- 
dent, wilful,  concentrated  thought,  I  suppose,  was  not  a 
characteristic  habit  of  his  mind.  If  it  could  have  become 
that,  it  must  have  increased  his  power,  and  would  have 
made  him,  if  possibly  less  learned,  greater.  But  this  is 
perhaps  only  saying  that  if  he  had  been,  not  himself,  but 
another,  of  different  natural  forces,  he  would  have  sur- 
passed himself. 

Yet,  maybe  not.  How  few  have  filled  so  large  a  pat- 
tern of  manhood,  of  scholarship,  of  noble  integrity, 
of  ministerial  work  and  loyalty.  Who  has  reached  so 
many,  so  healthily,  leaving  such  memorable  and  perma- 
nent impressions .''  How  far  he  has  sent  abroad  his 
instructions  !  How  sure  the  seeds  of  his  sowing,  wherever 
they  spring,  to  heal,  strengthen,  and  help  humanity ! 

Before  laying  down  the  pen,  I  cull  a  few  sentences,  or 
fragments  of  sentences,  from  his  note-books  and  diary, 
which,  while  they  have  no  immediate  connection  with  each 
other,  or  with  the  topics  already  treated,  have  some  value 
as    throwing   side-lights    upon    the    man    and    his    labors. 


44  MEMOIR. 


They  all  date  earlier  than  the  age  of  twenty-six  or  twenty- 
seven,  it  must  be  observed,  after  which  period  he  discon- 
tinued the  habit  of  self-reference  in  his  mere  business-like 
journal  of  appointments  and  engagements,  except  during 
the  year  of  his  travel  in  foregn  lands : 

Jan.,  1841.  [At  home:  vacation.]  "My  mind  to-day 
has  been  in  a  state  of  doubt  and  hesitation,  and  I  have 

not  felt  verv  well  either Mv  doubts  have  been  in 

some  degree  the  result  of  an  apparent  conflict  between 
duty  and  inclination.  This  time  the  subject  was  my  duty 
as  a  theological  student  and  a  poor  man,  and  mv  inclina- 
tion as  a  Unitarian.  By  entering  at  this  institution  (Union 
Seminary),  I  might  save  some  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  per  annum  in  money,  and  receive,  perhaps,  better 
instruction,  besides  being  constantly  at  home  and  under 
familv  influences.  On  the  other  hand,  bv  remaining  at 
Cambridge  I  contribute  to  keep  up  the  Unitarian  School, 
I  live  in  a  more  congenial  atmosphere,  and  I  have  greater 
advantages  for  studv  than  I  should  have  here." 

Nov.,  1841.  "It  makes  little  difference  what  feelings 
others  have  towards  me  to  my  own  mind  ;  but  I  am,  of 
course,  as  all  are,  sorry  that  there  should  be  any  ill-feel- 
ings between  members  of  a  Divinity  School.  We  are  none 
of  us  perfect :  far  from  it.  But  as  an  individual  I  am  not 
conscious  of  malevolence  towards  any  one.  I  may  have 
disagreeable  manners,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have  an 
unkind  heart." 

Feb.,  1842.  [At  home  :  on  vacation  :  dissatisfied  with  his 
supposed  want  of  success  in  addressing  a  Sunday  School.] 
"I  believe  that  by  constitution  and  habit,  I  am  much 
better  fitted  for  the  Law  than  any  other  profession." 

Feb.,  1842.  [After  a  church  "conversation"  m.eeting.] 
"  I  suspect,  however,  that  I  asserted  some  things  rather 
positively,  and  arrogated  a  great  deal  to  myself.  I  was  a 
little  too  conscious  of  my  own  superior  knowledge,  and 
talked  faster  than  was  necessary  or  proper." 

Feb.,  1842.  Still  at  home:  vacation:  he  mentions  it  as 
a  rare  fact  that  he  passed  afi  evening  at  home. 

Feb.,  1842.     "In  the  afternoon  I  went  up  to  take  leave 


MEMOIR.  45 


of  my  Sunday  School,  which  I  did  as  well  as  I  could.  But 
I  am  always  disappointed  at  my  own  efforts  in  speaking  to 
children,  I  always  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  be  silent.  My 
forte  in  speaking  lies  in  heated  argument." 

Mch.,  1842.  [Has  returned  to  Cambridge.]  "Somehow 
or  other  much  of  my  theological  zeal  has  cooled.  My 
mind  has  taken  a  more  practical  direction.  I  have  not  so 
much  desire  to  improve  my  store  of  knowledge,  as  to 
enlarge  my  store  of  religious  experience." 

Mch.,  1842 "I  read,  however,  a  portion  in  each 

of  the  five  books  I  am  now  reading;"  [that  is  from  the  five 
books  in  the  same  day.] 

May,  1842.  "  How  few  are  there,  even  of  my  most  inti- 
mate friends,  that  read  my  heart !  How  few  are  there  that 
give  me  credit  for  half  the  virtuous  desires  that  move  my 
breast." 

Dec,  1842.  After  severe  self-depreciation,  he  is  certain 
that  he  has  "the  natural  gifts  for  a  preacher.  It  is  in  me 
and  it  shall  come  out."     Yet,  three  weeks  later  — 

Dec,  1842.  "  r  begin  to  think  that  study  and  theology, 
rather  than  practical  matters,  are  my  forte." 

Feb.,  '43.  "  I  have  a  most  extravagant  tendency  to  find 
fault.  Nothing  satisfies  me,  and  everybody  else  sees  this. 
I  appear  conceited,  and  I  believe  I  am  conceited." 

July,  1844.  ''  I  wish  now  to  take  moderate  views,  but 
not  conservative  views,"  [apropos  to  a  sermon  he  had  just 
heard,  and  deemed  hurtfully  conservative.] 

July,  1844.  "There  remains  now  but  one  more  step  for 
me  to  take  to  make  my  settlement  complete."  [Marriage, 
no  doubt.] 

July,  1844.  [At  Horticultural  Exhibition.]  "  I  attended 
far  more  to  the  show  of  ladies  than  to  the  show  of 
flowers." 

Sept.,  1844.  "I  feel,  too,  that  the  influence  of  my 
present  life  is  not  what  it  ought  to  be  ;  that  the  influences 
of  my  present  position  are  bad,  —  that  I  cannot  be  so 
religious  as  I  ought  in  the  midst  of  this  society.  I  must 
be  at  the  head  of  a  familv  before  I  can  be  a  reli2:ious  man. 
....  I  feel  the  want  of  some  friend  more  and  more,  — 
some  sympathy  upon  which  I  can  rely." 

Sept.,  1844.  "  Her  children,  unlike  most  ministers' 
children,  behaved  well,  and  were  perfectly  orderly." 


46  MEMOIR. 


Sept.,  1844.  "  It  is  the  second  good  sermon  I  have 
written." 

Sept.,  1844.  [Six  months  after  ordination.]  "I  have 
become  a  proverb  for  bluntness." 

Nov.,  1844.  "The  dinner  was  a  very  feeble  luncheon, 
but  it  was  just  what  I  wanted." 

Nov.,  1844.  [Thanksgiving.  Finding  a  trembling 
tongue,  and  starting  tears  in  the  pulpit]  "  I  belieye  that 
my  nature  is  not  altogether  hard  and  unsentimental. 
There  is  more  feeling  in  it  than  I  am  generally  willing  to 
allow.  I  try  to  assume  an  indifference  which  does  not 
belong  to  me,  and  get  the  credit  for  carelessness,  when  in 

reality  I  am  all  interested As  for  writing  a  real 

sermon,  it  is  a  thing  I  have  never  done.  Were  it  not  that 
I  look  before  instead  of  behind,  by  nature  and  constitu- 
tion, I  should  despair  of  ever  becoming  a  preacher.  I 
dined  at  Mr. 's.  We  had  the  usual  amount  of  Thanks- 
giving cheer,  but  I  did  not  enjoy  it.  I  was  not  among 
those  near  and  natural  friends  with  whom  I  could  feel  per- 
fectly free.  I  longed  for  my  comfortable  quarters  at  Uncle 
B.'s,  and  the  genial  group  around  his  fireside.  I  had,  too, 
during  the  day  a  vague  feeling  of  melancholy,  partly 
caused  by  bodily  illness,  partly  by  a  feeling  that  I  was  not 
doing  my  duty  faithfully.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  passed 
a  more  lonely  Thanksgiving." 

Apr.,  1846.  "A  minister  in  a  parish,  I  think,  is  placed 
in  an  eminently  favorable  situation  for  judging  impartially. 
He  sees  every  variety  of  character,  and  numbers  men 
of  all  shades  of  opinion  among  his  personal  friends.  I 
do  not  know  any  single  prejudice  or  animosity  which  is 
likely  to  warp  my  judgment." 


MEMOIR.  47 


[From  the  Christian  Register.] 
BY    REV.    JOSEPH    H.    ALLEN, 

A   CLASSMATE   OF    MR.    BRIGHAM. 

A  person  of  average  capacity  for  work  would  be  aghast 
■  at  the  industry  of  those  years,  —  sermon-writing,  preach- 
ing, visiting,  work  in  outlying  districts,  with  eairer  interest 
in  all  professional  associations,  or  local  matters,  or  pro- 
jects to  promote  morals  and  intelligence,  and  with  the 
running  accom.paniment  of  his  prodigious  breadth  of  read- 
ing. It  seemed  as  if  he  had  literally  read  everything  that 
was  worth  reading  in  all  the  tongues  worth  learning. 
Without  being  a  book-worm  either,  for  he  cared  just  as 
much  about  out-door  matters,  wrote  one  of  the  best  articles 
on  forest-trees,  gave  some  of  the  best  descriptions  of  cities 
and  countries  he  had  visited,  was  acquainted  by  hearing 
of  the  ear  with  all  the  best  music,  of  which  he  was  very 
fond,  was  on  hand  at  all  important  public  occasions,  and 
always  seemed  absolutely  at  leisure  for  any  chance  conver- 
sation or  companionship. 

His  incessant  and  facile  industry  in  writing  has  been 
invaluable  in  many  a  close-pressed  editorial  experience, 
and  few  names  were  better  known  or  more  welcome  to  the 
readers  of  our  best  reviews.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  ability  to  "turn  off"  work  of  excellent  quality  indif- 
ferently in  almost  any  given  direction  seemed  positively 
inexhaustible  ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  seemed  wholly 
free  from  the  vanity  which  is  the  besetting  infirmity  of 
smaller  men  of  letters,  so  that  he  could  join  in  hearty 
praise  of  another  man's  work  which  he  thought  better  than 
his  own,  and  could  take,  in  frank  good-humor,  a  criticism 
or  an  emendation  which  another  man  might  resent.  These 
are  traits  which  will  be  better  appreciated  by  "  the  craft," 
but  they  are  also  very  significant  of  the  real  quality  of  the 
man. 


48  MEMOIR. 


Mr.  Biigham  was  a  sharp  critic  himself,  and  not  always 
a  sympathetic  one.  This  sometimes  showed  itself  in  his 
literary  essays  and  his  critical  notices,  which  were  incredi- 
bly numerous  and  invariably  good.  It  showed  itself  also 
in  a  certain  impatience  at  the  turn  and  tone  sometimes 
taken  by  the  fresher  thought  of  the  day.  At  one  time, 
this  looked  like  a  lack  of  sympathy  and  hopefulness 
reo'ardino:  the  religious  movement  we  are  ourselves  em- 
barked  in. 

It  was  a  happy  event  for  Mr.  Brigham,  as  well  as  a 
valuable  gift  to  a  wider  circle,  when  the  American  Unita- 
rian Association  fixed  on  him  to  occupy  the  post  offered 
at  Ann  Arbor.  To  him,  judging  from  his  correspondence 
at  that  time,  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  mental  life.  A 
certain  sense  of  weariness  and  routine  fell  away  at  once, 
and  one  felt  a  fresher  vigor  and  hope  in  the  tone  of  his 
writing,  which  was  the  breathing  of  another  climate.  And, 
with  his  characteristic  energy,  he  was  for  some  years  busy 
in  taking  in  the  features  and  capabilities  of  his  larger  field. 

He  gave  solid  dignity  and  respect  to  his  work,  and 
through  it  to  the  good  cause,  by  the  amplitude  of  his  learn- 
ing and  the  mass  of  his  mental  industry.  The  opportunity 
of  Unitarianism  in  the  West,  as  a  movement  of  religious 
thought,  must  be  quite  another  thing  from  the  fact  of  those 
twelve  years'  labors.  Once  for  all,  any  possible  stigma  of 
narrowness,  conceit,  shallow  radicalism,  was  forbidden  to 
rest  on  the  name  he  represented.  A  scholar  of  the  widest 
range  of  reading,  a  man  of  the  world,  familiar  with  art  and 
foreign  travel,  a  sober  and  somewhat  conservative  thinker, 
a  man  of  letters,  of  untiring  industry,  a  writer  and  speaker 
of  more  than  average  eloquence  and  force,  —  these  quali- 
ties were  recognized  and  applauded  in  every  form  in  which 
the  recognition  and  applause  of  man  has  its  value. 

Perhaps  the  central  and  most  significant  of  the  tasks  he 
did  was  the  instructing,  in  yearly  courses,  of  classes  from 
the  University ;  ranging,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  from 
one  hundred  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  in  number,  consist- 
ing mostly  of  young  men  who  have  made  his  name,  word, 
and  work  familiar  (it  is  not  extravagant  to  say)  in  every 
part  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,  and  who  are  themselves  a 


MEMOIR.  49 


whole  army  of  pioneers  in  the  higher  and  freer  Christian 
culture  of  that  great  and  superb  country. 

Mr.  Brigham's  health  had  been  failing  for  some  j^ears, 
more  plainly  and  alarmingly  in  his  friends'  eyes  than  his 
own;  when,  a  year  ago  last  May,  he  was  attacked,  near  the 
end  of  his  working  year,  by  symptoms  that  made  it  clear 
that  his  real  task  was  done.  The  months  of  waiting  since 
have  had  less  of  pain  and  more  of  enjoyment  than  might 
be  feared.  A  year  ago  he  was  still  almost  buoyant  in  the 
hope  of  returning  to  his  place  before  another  season.  But 
the  cloud  soon  thickened ;  and  for  several  months  he  has 
been  so  completely  disabled  for  all  part  in  the  world  that 
his  final  departure  must  have  been  a  welcome  release. 


ADDRESS  AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  MR.  BRIGHAM, 

BY   REV.    HENRY    ^V.    BELLOWS,    D.   D. 

We  Stand  here  awed  by  the  presence  of  Death,  but 
emboldened  by  the  faith  of  Christians.  It  is  not  only  a 
faithful  Christian,  but  a  Christian  minister,  whose  dust 
we  are  committing  to  the  rest  wdiich  his  undying  spirit, 
never  to  be  consigned  to  any  grave,  does  not  need.  It  is 
not  in  the  scene  of  his  labors,  not  among  the  attached 
people  of  his  old  flock  at  Taunton,  nor  the  young  men  at 
Ann  Arbor  and  Meadville,  that  this  last  service  takes 
place.  Were  it  so,  there  would  be  warmer  and  more 
tender  witnesses  of  this  ceremony.  But  dear  kindred  are 
here,  and  brother  ministers  of  his  own  special  faith,  and 
this  sympathizing  congregation,  all  of  whom  know  his 
claims  to  respect,  and  to  an  honored  memory  and  a  burial 
worthy  the  value  and  importance  of  the  life  it  closes  and 
marks  with  a  monumental  stone. 

Complete,  and  full  of  labors  and  services,  as  the  life  was 
of  the  man  and  Christian  minister  over  whose  dust  we  are 
hanging,  his  death,  long  threatened  and  at  last  welcome, 
affects  me  as  something  premature.  With  a  frame  vigorous 
and  sturdy,  full  of  sensuous  strength,  and  commanding 
for  its  weight  and  size,  he  exhibited  none  of  the  signs  of 
physical   weakness   or   waste   w^hich   so  often   accompany 

4 


50  MEMOIR. 


clerical  or  scholastic  pursuits.  You  would  have  said,  to 
look  upon  him  for  the  thirty-five  years  of  his  professional 
careGT,  that  seldom  had  a  man  been  made  whose  physical 
constitution  and  build  better  fitted  him  to  endure  the 
labor  and  strain  of  life,  or  who  would  more  naturally  have 
pursued,  not  a  scholar's  nor  a  minister's  life,  but  a  life 
of  affairs,  of  secular  pursuits  and  prepossessions.  No 
marked  delicacy  of  organization  pointed  him  out  as  a  man 
of  intellectual  and  spiritual  tendencies.  Full  of  blood 
and  of  hearty  appetites,  he  was  outwardly  built  for  the 
enjoyment  of  the  things  of  time  and  sense,  and  for  the 
ordinary  average  tastes  and  interests  of  practical  life.  It 
always  surprised  and  gratified  those  who  knew  him  from 
his  youth  up  that,  against  all  the  temptations  and  tenden- 
cies of  his  exacting  physical  nature,  he  became  so  early 
self-consecrated  to  intellectual,  moral,  and  spiritual  pur- 
suits. His  love  of  knowledge,  his  devotion  to  learning, 
his  sanctification  to  Christian  ends  and  aims,  were  no  pro- 
duct of  nervous  sensibility,  debilitated  senses,  or  delicate 
health  ;  but,  rather,  in  spite  of  superfluous  physical  vigor, 
strong  appetites,  and  an  immense  natural  enjoyment  of 
his  corporeal  being.  We  do  not  wonder  when  pale,  feeble, 
and  delicate  persons,  unequal  to  bodily  labors  and  un- 
suited  to  active  and  tumultuous  worldly  pursuits,  give 
themselves  up  to  books,  to  hopes  beyond  the  world,  to 
the  intellectual  and  the  spiritual  life;  but  when  the  mus- 
cular, the  full-blooded,  the  sensuous,  turn  from  the  things 
of  the  flesh  and  the  world,  to  consecrate  themselves  to 
unworldh^,  to  scholarly,  and  to  spiritual  pursuits,  we  be- 
hold a  grand  triumph  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  over 
the  carnal  nature,  and  see  with  what  a  strength  of  grasp, 
with  what  a  force  of  consecrated  will,  with  what  an  intel- 
lectual bit  and  spiritual  bridle,  the  soul  has  made  the 
rebellious  body  and  senses  serve  the  desires  of  the  mind. 
Our  departed  brother,  whom  I  have  known  from  his  boy- 
hood up,  was  not  a  man  who  despised  or  neglected  the 
body  or  the  things  of  this  life.  He  had  too  vigorous  and 
hearty  an  enjoyment  of  them,  and  was  too  manly  and 
frank,  too  social  and  too  free  from  all  pretension  and  all 
sympathy  with  ascetic  habits  and  voluntary  self-denials,  to 
be  wholly  safe   from   the    perils  of   his   natural  aptitudes 


MEMOIR.  51 


and  sensuous  sensibilities.  But  who  was  freer  from  all 
corporeal  vices  ?  Who  used  his  physical  vigor  more 
unstintedly  for  intellectual  labors  and  professional  ser- 
vices? Who  has  exhibited  a 'more  absolute  devotion  to 
the  pursuit  of  knowledge  and  truth,  or  maintained  a  more 
undeniable  and  unquestioned  sanctification  of  heart  and 
conscience  to  his  sacred  calling  and  his  ministerial  office  ? 
It  would  have  been  so  easy  for  him  to  have  slipped  into 
weaknesses  that  would  have  compromised  his  clerical  stand- 
ing and  his  Christian  repute,  that  his  unsullied  life  :\ud 
spotless  record,  as  a  minister  and  a  man,  deserve  something 
more  than  ordinary  recognition  and  praise.  Without  with- 
drawing from  the  world,  he  lived  in  it,  yet  above  it.  With 
a  rebellious,  because  hearty,  physical  frame,  he  kept  all  the 
more  perilous  tendencies  of  his  body  under,  and  never 
brought  his  self-control,  or  his  moral  and  spiritual  repute, 
under  the  least  doubt  or  into  the  smallest  shame. 

From  his  youth  up,  he  had  a  noble  and  never-quenched 
passion  for  books  ;  his  appetite  for  them  was  more  mas- 
terly than  any  physical  appetite,  strong  as  that  might  be. 
To  read  them  more  widely  and  abundantly,  he  acquired 
ancient  and  modern  languages,  and  devoured  classical, 
and  romantic,  and  domestic,  and  foreign  literatures,  with 
an  in  appeasable  hunger  and  a  prodigious  power  of  digestion. 
He  was  almost  equally  at  home  in  ancient  and  modern 
learning;  in  theolog}^,  philosophy,  science,  and  fiction; 
in  what  was  happening  in  the  most  distant  universities 
and  schools  of  thought,  and  in  the  latest  of  our  American 
colleges.  No  book  of  any  importance  escaped  his  notice, 
and  no  distance  from  intellectual  centres,  and  no  ensfross- 
nient  m  mmisterial  cares,  ever  seemed  to  baffle  or  delay 
his  reading  and  studies.  And  what  he  acquired,  he  was 
as  ready  and  as  skillful  to  impart  as  he  was  quick  to  digest. 
He  never  sunk  the  uses  and  the  practical  bearing  of  his 
learning  and  reading  in  any  selfish  curiosity  or  egotistic 
devotion  to  his  own  culture.  He  read  to  learn,  and  he 
learned  to  instruct  and  enlighten  others.  Without  the 
demands  of  the  professor's  chair  or  the  exclusive  claims 
of  an  academic  office,  he  was  truly  a  professor  at  large, 
who  knew  more  of  many  departments  of  learning  than 
men  set  apart  to  a  special  study,  and  called  to  teach  it 


52  MEMOIR. 


exclusively,  usually  know  of  their  single  branch.  At  Ann 
Arbor,  where  he  passed  eleven  happy  and  most  useful  years, 
in  the  capacity  of  the  minister  of  a  small  flock,  he  gathered 
about  him  all  the  more  aspiring  students  of  all  aptitudes 
and  varied  professional  aspirations,  who  sat  at  his  feet  as 
a  sort  of  Admirable  Crichton,  —  a  universal  encyclopedic 
master  of  knowledges,  who  could  be  safely  consumed  on 
any  theme,  and  who,  if  he  did  not  know  all  about  it  him- 
self, knew  exactly  who  did.  It  is  said  that  he  was  a  sort 
of  untitled,  unsalaried,  universal  professor  in  Michigan, 
finding  the  titled  professors  of  the  college  ready  to  advise 
with  him,  and  lending  to  many,  perhaps,  the  only  adequate 
companionship  they  could  find  in  the  neighborhood.  His 
influence  in  the  college,  and  over  the  rising  youth  of  that 
populous  university  is  said  to  have  been  quite  unprec- 
edented, considering  that  he  held  no  office,  and  was  only 
the  minister  of  a  small  flock  in  the  town,  of  a  form  of 
faith  not  at  all  congenial  with  the  prevailing  theology  of 
the  place  and  the  college. 

I  have  myself  had  the  opportunity  of  observing  the 
industry,  the  variety,  the  competency  of  his  labors  as  visit- 
ing lecturer  at  the  Meadville  Theological  School ;  he 
would  hurry  to  the  spot  from  Michigan  to  Pennsylvania, 
and  in  a  fortnight,  lecturing  sometimes  twice  a  day,  give  a 
long  course  of  lectures  on  ecclesiastical  history,  or  dogma- 
tics, or  philosophy,  each  crammed  with  the  results  of  the 
largest  reading,  and  each  bristling  with  facts  and  illustra- 
tions, making  every  one  tell  upon  his  point,  and  exciting  a 
strange  wonder  and  admiration  among  his  pupils  that  "one 
head  could  carry  all  he  knew." 

What  a  rare  and  precious  office  an  American  scholar 
fills,  especially  in  our  Western  world,  some  of  you  must 
duly  feel ;  but  we  have  so  few  entitled  to  the  name  that  it 
is  impossible  to  think  of  all  the  knowledge  and  scholastic 
taste,  acumen  and  critical  ability,  to  be  buried  in  Mr. 
Brigham's  grave,  without  sorrow  and  sharp  regret.  Hardly 
have  we  left  to  us  one  man  of  so  wide  and  general  read- 
ing, or  any  whose  tastes  for  books  and  learning  was  so 
genuine,  long-continued,  unaffected,  and  hearty.  And  he 
was  so  generous  in  the  use  of  his  pen,  in  our  reviews,  our 
religious  newspapers,  and  our  conferences,  that  his  readi- 


MEMOIR.  53 


ness,  promptness  and  activity  will  be  sorely  missed  in  all 
our  affairs. 

Mr.  Brigham  was  for  twenty  years  of  his  life  pastor  of 
the  Unitarian  Church  in  Taunton,  and  expended  a  cease- 
less activity  in  the  pulpit,  the  lecture-room,  the  town,  and 
the  parish,  in  clearing  up,  widening,  and  strengthening 
those  enlio-htened  views  of  the  Christian  relio:ion  which  he 
firmly  held.  He  was  too  widelyrread,  too  deeply-taught, 
to  be  a  partisan  or  a  denominationalist.  His  acquaint- 
ance and  his  sympathy  with  all  educated  and  earnest 
minds  in  all  schools  and  branches  of  the  Christian  Church 
made  him  catholic  in  the  truest  sense  of  that  word.  He 
was  not  an  enthusiast  in  his  hopes,  or  a  fanatic  in  any- 
thing. He  seldom  saw  the  golden  prospects  ahead  that 
cheer  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  not  candidly  observant 
of  the  present  and  dispassionately  studious  of  the  lessons 
of  the  past.  Indeed,  his  readiness  to  do  justice  to  all 
sides  made  him  a  poor  sectarian  and  a  lukewarn  denomi- 
nationalist. He  thought  few  men  to  be  well  acquainted 
with  the  grounds  of  their  own  opinions,  and  valued  their 
hopes  and  confidences  accordingly.  He  was  himself, 
raoveover,  with  all  his  vigor  of  body  and  right  to  the  cour- 
age of  his  careful  opinions,  modest  and  not  over-confident. 
With  a  copious  and  ready  vocabulary,  he  was  slow  to 
speak  in  our  public  assemblies ;  and,  while  one  of  the 
most  voluble  and  spontaneous  of  talkers  at  the  fireside 
and  on  the  private  walk,  he  was  more  silent  and  quiet  in 
our  public  conferences  than  could  be  accounted  for  on  any 
theory  except  that  of  a  certain  habitual  distrust  of  un- 
studied and  impulsive  speech. 

He  had  a  superlative  method  in  the  use  of  his  time, 
and  the  order  of  his  studies ;  knew  just  where  he  was 
going  to  be  and  just  what  he  was  going  to  do,  months 
ahead ;  and  had  his  reading,  and  his  writing,  and  his  visit- 
ing hours  laid  out  with  a  precision  and  a  method  that 
were  admirable,  and  sufficiently  account  for  his  vast 
knowledge  of  books  and  his  immense  productiveness  in 
manuscripts.  To  this  he  added  a  memory  of  the  utmost 
tenacity.  A  rapid  reader,  he  w^as  slow  to  forget,  and  had 
his  treasures  at  the  readiest  command.  His  preaching 
was  eminently  strong  and  suggestive,  the  subject  always 


54  MEMOIR. 


having  a  certain  masterful  laying  out  and  an  exhaustive 
treatment.  And  his  prayers  were  copious,  devout,  and 
varied.  Perhaps  he  had  not  that  contagious  and  sympa- 
thetic temperament  so  much  craved  in  the  pulpit  in  our 
day.  But  he  lacked  nothing  else,  and  was  really,  for  so 
learned,  so  frank,  so  common-sensed  a  man,  singularly 
spiritual  and  devout  in  his  pulpit  work. 

He   was  a   Christian  —  almost   an   ecclesiastic  —  in  his 
tastes.     He  loved  the  church  and  its  worship,  its  music 
and  its  symbols.     Had  he  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages,  he 
would  early  have   repaired   to  a   monastery,  to  enjoy  the 
privileges   of    its   studies,   and   its  freedom  from   worldly 
anxieties ;    nor  would   he  have   despised  its  good   cheer. 
Indeed,  he  was  one  of  the  few  products  of  our  time  and 
our  ranks  in  whom  the  old  spirit  of  monkery  was  revived 
and  represented.     A  voluntary  celibate,  with  not  a  single 
temptation   or   disposition   to    change    his  bachelor  state, 
that  I  ever  heard  of,  he  lived  a  life  of  books  and  old  learn- 
inof  in  the  midst  of  an  asre  that  reads  little  that  is  not  wet 
from  the  press  and  reeking  with  a  superficial  novelty;  and 
without  one  known  desire  to  yield  up  the  satisfactions  of 
learning  to  any  domestic  veariiings  or  any  public  ambition. 
He  was  a  singularly  unambitious  person  for  a  man  of  his 
powers   and   capacities.     He   has    left  manuscripts  which 
almost  any  other  man   of    his   scholarship   and    standing 
would  have  long  ago  thrown  into  print.     He  wrote  almost 
as  much  as  he  read ;  but  either  his  standard  was  too  high 
and  his  learning  too  great  to  make  him  overvalue  or  even 
duly  estimate    his    own    work,    or    else    he    was    strongly 
uncovetous  of  public  recognition  and  applause.     He  never 
seemed  at  all  desirous  of   a  city  pulpit ;  never  grasped  at 
any  office ;  never  entered  even  the  academic  scramble  for 
professional  honors.    With  his  strength  and  his  knowledge, 
and  his  blameless  life  and  character,  even  a  little  personal 
ambition  would  have  carried  him   higher,  and  made  him 
more  conspicuous  ;  but  perhaps  he  chose  wisely,  and  with 
a  better   self-knowledge,   in   prizing   most   the    calm    and 
studious  life,  and  drawing  his  happiness  from  his  books 
and  his  use  of  them  in  his  secluded  spheres,  or  his  pulpit 
and  his  lecture-room.     Yet  he  was  a  lover  of  good  fellow- 
ship and  good  people,  and,  although  he  had  his  limitations 


MEMOIR.  55 


and  peculiarities,  a  welcome  visitor  in  scores  of  homes  in 
the  West. 

I  have  been  so  long  and  so  widely  separated  from  him 
in  distance — without  ever  having  had  a  close  intimacy  with 
him  —  that  I  have  no  right  to  speak  of  his  more  private 
views  and  his  spiritual  graces.  But  he  always  impressed 
me  as  a  thorouo^hlv  s^ood  man,  whose  moral  and  relis^ious 
principles  were  deeply  and  inextricably  wrought  into  his 
personality;  without  hypocrisy  or  guile;  without  over-val- 
uation of  himself,  or  over-conhdence  ;  ready  and  generous 
in  his  recognition  of  all  the  gifts  of  others  ;  without  jeal- 
ousy or  detraction;  a  tremendous  worker,  and  one  willing 
to  submit  to  any  amount  of  intellectual  drudgery;  ever 
conscientious  in  the  use  of  his  time  and  opportunities. 
He  was  perfectly  free  in  his  studies  and  afraid  of  no 
depth  or  breadth  of  inquiries,  but  was  a  Churchman  as 
well  as  a  Christian,  a  man  who  knew  the  invaluable  and 
immense  services  the  gospel  had  rendered,  and  read  it  in 
its  historical  form  with  genuine  heartiness,  but  with  the 
full  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  all  the  results  of 
modern  criticism. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  he  had  all  the  most  precious  hopes 
of  a  believing  Christian,  and  that  his  last  two  suffering 
years  have  not  only  tried,  but  purified  and  exalted  his 
faith.  I  never  have  heard  of  a  murmur  or  a  doubt  of  God's 
Vv'isdoni  and  goodness  as  coming  from  his  lips.  He  has 
had  a  most  useful,  a  highly  respected  and  an  exceptionally 
scholarly  career.  Labor  and  thought  have  filled  his  days. 
He  has  had  a  rare  and  glorious  chance  to  impress  himself 
upon  hundreds  of  American  youth,  as  a  scholar  and  a 
Christian  teacher.  He  made  full  proof  of  his  ministry,  in 
a  strong  parish,  for  twenty  years,  and  stamped  himself  into 
one  large  New  England  town,  where  Christianity  and  civil- 
ization will  \ox\z  acknowledsfe  his  influence  and  remain 
under  his  spell.  After  a  long  life  of  almost  uninterrupted 
health,  he  was  called  suddenly  to  two  years  of  slow  decline 
and  painful  invalidism,  —  which  may  have  been  not  less 
useful  to  him  than  his  health  had  been  to  others.  He 
carries  a  stainless  memory  into  his  grave,  whither  he  went 
in  calm  Christian  faith  and  confidence.  He  lacked 
nothing  except  the  highest  form  of  domestic  experience, — 


56  MEMOIR. 


a  great  lack,  indeed,  —  and  that  has  been  made  up  to  him 
in  part  by  the  assiduous  cares  and  devotion  of  his  kindred, 
who  must  now  value  unspeakably  tlie  privilege  of  having 
ministered  to  this  wifeless,  childless  man,  and  this  life-long 
solitary  of  the  library  and  the  pulpit,  in  these  last  trying 
years  of  his  decay. 

I  will  not  close  without  recalling  the  fact  that  it  wajs 
from  my  old  church  in  Chambers  Street  that  young  Brig- 
ham  went,  thirty-five  years  ago,  into  the  ministry,  and  that 
I  preached  his  ordination  sermon  —  the  second  I  ever 
preached,  but  since  so  many  —  at  his  settlement  in  Taun- 
ton ;  that  I  officiated  at  the  funerals  of  his  honored 
mother,  too  early  called  away,  and  his  long-lived  and  won- 
derfully preserved  father,  who  died  so  recently  among  you  ; 
and  that  I  feel  it  would  be  more  natural  for  him  to  sp'^al^ 
at  my  burial  than  thus  for  me  to  be  speaking  at  his.  But 
God  knows  the  times  and  the  seasons  !  For  our  worn 
friend  a  sweet  rest  is  already  prepared.  More  than  the 
joys  of  books  and  libraries  are  already  opened  to  him  ;  for 
he  reads  the  face  of  his  God  and  Father ;  he  enters  the 
communion  of  Christian  scholars  of  all  ages,  and  sees 
them  and  not  merely  their  works  ;  he  is  near  the  fountain 
of  all  Christian  theology, — the  beloved  Master  and  Head 
of  the  Church  ;  he  is  witness  to  the  truth  that  here  we  know 
in  part  and  prophesy  in  part,  but  that  where  he  is  they 
know  even  as  also  thev  are  known  ;  for  when  that  which  is 
perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  be  done 
away.  Faithful  brother,  we  dismiss  thee  to  thy  well- 
earned  promotion  to  heavenly  seats,  to  better  society,  to 
fuller  knowledge,  and  to  higher  intellectual  and  spiritual 
joys  !  Minister  of  Christ,  ascend  to  thy  Master !  Child 
of  God,  go  to  thy  Father's  arms  !  Christian  brother,  join 
the  fellowship  of  the  family  in  heaven  !  Those  of  thy 
mortal  blood  will  long  weep  for  thee  ;  but  they  rejoice  to- 
day that  thou  art  free  from  all  mortal  bonds,  and  confident 
of  thy  welcome  in  the  spiritual  world  thou  taughtest  others 
to  find,  not  forgetting  the  way  for  thyself.     Farewell. 


PAPERS. 


AMBROSE.  59 


I. 

ST.  AMBROSE,  BISHOP   OF   MILAN. 

Arbogastes,  a  Roman  general,  who  at  the  close  of  the 
fourth  century,  made  war  upon  the  Franks  of  the  Rhine 
country,  in  an  interview  which  he  had  with  their  chiefs, 
was  asked  if  he  was  a  friend  of  Ambrose.  From  motives 
of  policy  he  returned  an  affirmative  answer.  But  they 
quickly  replied,  that  now  "  they  did  not  wonder  at  his  con- 
quering them,  since  he  enjoyed  the  favor  of  a  man  whom 
the  sun  would  obey,  if  he  should  command  it  to  stand 
still." 

This  second  Joshua  was  not  the  leader  of  any  armed 
host,  but  was  the  spiritual  dictator  of  kings  and  generals. 
And  when  one  considers  the  rare  union  in  his  life  of  eccle- 
siastical dignity  and  spiritual  faith,  how  he  could  humble 
the  mightiest  by  his  simple  trust,  —  and  make  of  an 
emperor  first  a  penitent  and  then  a  saint,  the  miracle 
might  seem  more  fitting  of  him  than  of  the  leader  of 
Israel's  hosts. 

No  city  in  Europe  has  been  more  the  centre  of  violence 
and  insurrection  than  Milan,  the  capital  of  Lombardy. 
Lyino^  as  it  does  on  the  frontier  between  Germany  and 
Italy,  in  every  struggle  between  these  hereditary  foes,  it 
has  been  the  principal  sufferer.  Down  from  the  slopes  of 
the  Alps  invading  armies  have  poured  into  its  gates, 
devouring  its  substance  and  deluging  its  streets  with  blood. 
In  civil  commotion,  nobles  and  people  have  fought  hand 
to  hand  in  the  great  square  before  the  cathedral.  The 
plague  has  there  destroyed,  and  its  ravages  has  given  the 
groundwork  of  the  most  touching  and  exciting  of  Italian 
novels. 

The  Milanese  are  a  restless  and  rebellious  people.  But 
there  is  one  thing  which  characterises  their  city  more  than 
its  turbulence,  and  which  outlasts  all  its  misfortunes,  the 


6o  AMBROSE. 


deep-rooted  reverence  of  the  people  for  their  patron  saints. 
The  altar  where  Borromeo  once  ministered  still  gathers  its 
myriads,  even  in  the  hottest  siege.  And  even  when  the 
enemy  are  furious  in  the  streets,  the  Church  of  St.  Am- 
brose is  crowded  with  penitents  who  implore  the  aid  of 
the  holy  bishop's  bones.  Separated  by  an  interval  of  one 
thousand  years,  still  these  two  saints  are  joined  in  the  popu- 
lar memory.  And  in  the  same  religious  service,  the  prayers 
of  the  one  and  the  hymns  of  the  other,  are  chanted  by 
white-robed  choirs,  and  shake  with  their  rolling  harmony 
the  myriad  statues  of  that  wonderful  work  of  art,  the 
great  Cathedral  of  Milan. 

We  leave  to  a  future  lecture  the  sketch  of  that  most 
lovely  and  apostolic  of  all  Catholic  saints,  Charles  Borro- 
meo. If  you  would  learn  the  spirit  and  beauty  of  his  life 
and  influence,  read  Mansoni's  story  of  the  Betrothed.  It 
is  the  more  ancient  guardian  of  Milan  who  gives  a  theme 
for  the  present  lecture, — -the  model  bishop,  as  we  might 
call  him,  of  the  fourth  century,  —  a  man  of  large  mind,  but 
of  larger  heart,  a  prince  in  dignity,  a  child  in  simplicity,— 
firm  before  men,  humble  before  God,  close  to  keep 
the  faith  of  the  Church,  —  yet  charitable  beyond  the 
measure  of  his  age, — prudent  in  action,  fearless  in  word, 
—  kind  to  the  poor,  candid  to  the  great,  respectful  to  all, — 
capable  of  becoming  great,  preferring  to  do  good,  yielding 
the  possession  of  temporal  power  to  the  hope  of  spiritual 
usefulness, — pleased,  not  by  eulogy,  but  gratitude, — giv- 
ing up  the  praise  of  the  successful  scholar  for  the  praise 
of  the  faithful  pastor. 

The  city  of  Treves,  which  the  conversion  of  Jerome  and 
the  possession  of  the  Holy  Coat  have  made  famous  alike  in 
ancient  and  modern  days,  is  honored  more  truly  by  being 
the  birthplace  of  Ambrose.  His  father  was  the  governor 
of  that  province  of  Gaul.  But  more  propitious  still  for 
the  future  eminence  of  the  son  than  his  noble  birth,  was 
the  omen  which  happened  one  day  as  he  lay  an  infant  in 
his  cradle,  in  a  court-yard  of  the  palace.  A  swarm  of  bees 
came  flying  round,  and  some  crept  in  and  out  of  his 
opened  mouth,  and  finally  all  rose  into  the  air  so  high  that 
they  quite  vanished  out  of  sight.  This  prodigy,  repeated 
from  the  infancy  of  Plato,  seemed  to  prophecy  another  life 


AMBROSE,  6 1 


liKe  Plato's.     And  from  his  very  cradle  Ambrose  seemed 

*  ^ 

destined  to  authority  and  sanctity. 

Ambrose  was  educated  first  at  Treves  and  afterwards  at 
Rome  for  the  profession  of  law  ;  and  his  abilities  in  this 
direction  were  so  marked  that  his  friendship  was  courted 
by  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  city,  as  well  Pagan 
as  Christian.     Of  one  of  these,  Symmachus,  he  was  after- 
wards the  opponent  in  controversies  of  singular  vigor ;  by 
another,  Probus,  the  prefect  of  Rome,  he  was  early  intro- 
duced   into    political   life,  and  finally  from   one   ofiice  to 
another  raised  to  that  of  governor  of  all  the  northern  prov- 
inces of  Italy.    As  he  departed  for  Milan,  the  metropolitan 
city  of  the  provinces,  the  parting  words  of  Probus  to  him 
were,  "Go  thy  way,  and  govern  more  like  a  bishop  than  a 
judge,"     They  were  prophetic.     Hardly  had  he  arrived  at 
Milan,  when   the   Arian   bishop,  who  had   held  the  office 
twenty  years,  was  removed  by  death,  and  all  the  quarrels 
that  could  arise  in  a  distracted  Church  were  inflamed  into 
fury.     The  Catholics  and  Arians  seemed  equally  to  forget 
that  they  were  Christians.     As  governor  of  the  provinces 
Ambrose  believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to  moderate  ecclesiasti- 
cal as  well  as  civil  disturbances      He  accordingly  went  to 
the  church  where  the  council  for  choosing  a  bishop  were 
assembled,  and  endeavored  to  make  peace  among  them. 
In   the   midst  of  his   harangue,  the  voice  of  a  child  was 
suddenly  heard,  exclaiming,   "  Let  Ambrose   be   bishop." 
It  came  like  the  voice  of  an  angel  to  the  excited  throng, 
and   all   shouted   at   once,  Catholic   and   Arian   together: 
"Ambrose  shall  be  our  bishop."     It  was  rather  a  novel 
method  of  election,  and  a  somewhat  singular  choice,  since 
Ambrose  was  not  a  professing  Christian,  and  had  never 
been  baptised.     But  they  saw  at  once  that  the  only  way  of 
reconciling  their  disputes  was  to  take  a  new  man,  who  was 
obnoxious  to  neither  party,  and  whose    individual  excel- 
lence, more  than  his  special  experience,  fitted  him  for  the 
office. 

Ambrose  himself,  however,  thought  it  a  choice  not  fit  to 
be  made,  and  adopted  various  contrivances  for  proving 
this.  To  show  how  inhuman  he  was,  he  had  several  crim- 
inals brought  up  and  tortured.  But  the  people  were  not 
to  be  deceived  by  this,  and  when  he  attempted  to  get  out 


62  AMBROSE. 


of  the  way,  they  had  a  guard  set  upon  him,  and  baffled  all 
his  stratagem.  His  appeal  to  the  emperor  to  be  released 
from  a  duty  which  he  knew  nothing  about,  was  answered 
by  the  command  of  the  emperor  to  accept  it,  with  the 
comforting  assurance  that  he  considered  it  a  very  excellent 
choice.  He  was  defeated  at  all  points,  and  was  obliged, 
most  reluctlantly,  to  submit  to  the  infraction  of  the  canon 
laws,  and  with  the  great  seal  of  baptism,  to  be  transferred 
at  once  from  the  temporal  to  the  spiritual  administration 
of  the  State.  On  the  7th  of  December,  374,  he  was  con- 
secrated as  bishop.  And  to  the  Church  in  Milan  this  is 
still  the  great  day  of  rejoicing.  Ambrose  was  thirty-four 
years  when  he  was  ordained  to  this  high  and  responsible 
office.  He  assumed  a  task  for  which  he  had  no  previous 
preparation,  and  no  original  taste.  But  with  such  zeal  and 
fidelity  did  he  discharge  his  trust,  that  the  twenty-two  years 
of  his  administration  were  unrivalled  in  their  fruits  of 
benefit  by  the  episcopal  life  of  any  that  had  gone  before 
him.  He  died  in  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers,  before 
the  weakness  of  age  had  come  on,  or  his  natural  force  had 
abated.  Yet  the  longest  life  could  scarcely  have  done 
more  to  vindicate  the  rights,  to  consolidate  the  power,  and 
to  secure  the  reverence,  not  only  of  his  own,  but  of  the 
universal  Church.  If  his  administration  was  in  a  less 
stirring  time  than  that  which  came  immediately  after  it,  he 
used  and  directed  its  incidents  so  that  they  gained  substan- 
tial importance.  Without  secularizing  the  Church,  he 
used  the  spiritual  power,  so  that  the  influence  of  the 
Church  was  felt  upon  the  State.  Without  violent  persecu- 
tion, he  eradicated  the  heresies  that  he  found  troubling  the 
rest  of  the  people.  He  carried  into  his  religious  councils 
the  prudence,  the  skill,  and  the  calmness  of  the  wise  states- 
man, and  he  gained  the  respect,  if  he  could  not  get  the 
adhesion,  of  his  adversaries.  We  can  easily  follow  out  his 
'nfluence  in  every  direction,  for  while  he  is  nowhere  very 
brilliant  or  peculiar,  he  is  still  a  true  bishop,  ready  for 
every  duty,  thoroughly  furnished  to  every  good  work.  We 
will  first  consider  his  influence  in  the  political  affairs  of 
the  Empire. 

The  Western  Empire,  in  this  period,  was  tottering  to  its 
fall.     The  Gothic  hordes  in  the   hills  of  the  North  were 


AMBROSE.  63 


gathering  themselves  together  for  their  marauding  onset.  A 
succession  of  weak  and  wicked  emperors  had  not  the  fore- 
si2:ht  to  see  what  thev  would  not  have  had  the  strensfth  to 
resist.  But  Ambrose  saw  it,  and  turned  the  weakness  of 
Imperial  rule  to  the  strengthening  of  that  Church,  in 
which  all  the  hopes  of  the  future  should  lie.  Though  he 
was  forced  by  the  emperor  to  be  a  bishop,  he  never  became 
the  tool  of  an  emperor.  But  he  rebuked  royal  vices  at  the 
very  moment  he  was  extorting  royal  concessions.  He  saw 
usurpers  and  murderers  in  the  seat  of  power,  and  saw  them 
share  the  fate  of  their  victims.  But  he  never  would  toler- 
ate usurpation  and  murder,  though  he  did  not  disdain  the 
moral  influence  which  the  humiliation  of  kinsfs  could  sfive. 
We  need  not  go  over  the  dismal  catalogue  of  political 
changes,  nor  rehearse  the  shifting  fortunes  of  the  weak 
Valentinian,  the  amiable  Gratian,  the  tyrannical  Maximus  — 
nor  dwell  upon  the  strans^e  union  of  cruelty,  dignity,  and 
piety  that  were  conspicuous  in  the  life  of  the  great  Theo- 
dosius.  Nor  need  we  enumerate  the  lonsr  succession  of 
salutary  laws  which  the  bishop  of  Milan  procured  from 
each  of  the  short-lived  reigns.  Not  the  least  timely  of 
these  was  the  law  to  prevent  judicial  assassination,  by 
requiring  that  no  condemned  person  should  be  executed  in 
less  than  thirty  days  after  his  sentence.  This  put  a  stop 
at  once  to  those  wholesale  murders  under  the  forms  of  law, 
by  which  enraged  governors  sought  to  satisfy  their  sudden 
vengeance.  It  was  a  statute  which  the  wisdom  of  all  en- 
lightened nations  will  keep  forever. 

But  xA.mbrose  did  not  hesitate  to  come  into  collision  with 
the  emperor  or  any  other  dignitary  when  the  purity  of 
Church  doctrines  was  in  question.  He  had  no  more 
respect  for  Arianism  on  the  throne  than  in  the  street. 
Loyalty  with  him  always  yielded  to  zeal  for  the  faith.  The 
Emperor  Valentinian  I.,  who  died  the  year  after  he  was 
made  bishop,  left  a  most  uncomfortable  widow,  whosj 
heresy  and  ambition  were  alike  inveterate,  and  who  added 
all  the  arts  of  a  hypocrite  to  all  the  obstinacy  of  a  fanatic. 
If  she  seemed  to  submit,  it  was  because  she  was  deter- 
mined to  conquer.  If  she  labored  like  a  mother  for  her 
weak-minded  son,  it  was  to  keep  a  mother's  rule  over  him 
when  in  power.     In  accepting  the  assistance  of  the  bishop 


64  A3TBB0SE. 


in  her  day  of  trouble,  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  gaining 
a  right  to-  command  him  in  her  day  of  triumph.  Ambrose 
supported  the  pretensions  of  the  son  because  he  believed 
him  to  be  the  proper  heir  to  the  throne,  but  he  had  no  idea 
of  vieldins:  to  the  arrogance  or  to  the  heresv  of  the  mother. 
During  the  life  of  her  husband  and  her  step-son,  his  first 
successor,  who  were  sound  Catholics,  the  empress  did  not 
venture  to  declare  her  religious  views.  But  her  first  use  of 
her  son's  absolute  power,  was  coolly  to  demand  for  the  use 
of  the  Arians,  and  the  Court,  the  ancient  Cathedral,  which 
stood  outside  of  the  walls,  and  afterwards  the  new  cathe- 
dral in  the  very  heart  of  the  city ;  and  with  considerable 
shrewdness,  she  accompanied  the  demand  with  men  to 
take  possession.  But  the  messens^ers  found  the  bishop  at 
the  altar,  ministering  the  high  Easter  service.  He  was 
summoned,  in  the  name  of  the  emperor,  to  give  up  the 
church.  The  messenger  received  this  noble  answer : 
"  Should  the  emperor  require  what  is  mine,  my  land  or  my 
money,  I  shall  not  refuse  him,  though  all  I  possess  belongs 
to  the  poor.  If  you  require  my  estate,  take  it,  —  if  my 
body,  here  it  is,  —  load  me  with  chains,  kill  me  if  you 
will,  —  I  am  content.  I  shall  not  fly  to  the  protection  of 
the  people,  nor  cling  to  the  altars  :  I  choose  rather  to  be 
sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  the  altars.''  The  next  morning 
the  church  was  surrounded  with  soldiers  after  the  bishop 
had  entered,  and  for  a  day. and  a  night  he  was  a  close  pris- 
oner. But  the  sermon  that  he  preached  so  softened  the 
hearts  of  the  soldiers,  and  the  prayers  which  he  offered 
so  cheered  the  spirits  of  the  disciples,  that  when  the  order 
at  last  came  for  his  release,  it  was  received  with  a  univer- 
sal shout  of  joy.  The  bishop  had  conquered  without 
rebellion,  and  had  made  the  occasion  of  tyranny  an  occa- 
sion of  conversion.  In  the  following  year,  the  same 
experiment  was  tried  again  with  no  better  success.  An 
Arian  bishop  was  consecrated  at  Court,  and  enjoyed  in  the 
royal  favor  the  show  of  episcopal  power.  But  in  spite  of 
all  the  edicts  and  fulminations  of  the  Court,  Ambrose  took 
no  notice  of  the  foolish  farce.  He  was  imprisoned  during 
worship  in  the  church  again.  But  he  improved  the  occa- 
sion by  a  discourse  that  has  come  down  to  us,  to  discuss 
the  true  connection  between  Church  and  State.     This  dis- 


AMBROSE.  65 


course  contains  many  views  that  savor  strongly  of  our 
American  Con2:reo:ationalism,  and  does  not  sound  verv 
much  Uke  a  flattery  of  power.  It  is  an  expansion  of  the 
Scripture  precept,  "Render  unto  Caesar  the  things  which 
are  Caesar's,  but  unto  God  the  things  which  are  God's." 
The  imprisonment  lasted  several  days,  and  the  chroni- 
cles concerning  it  have  embellished  it  with  a  few  miracles, 
which  add  nothing  to  its  moral  effect.  The  statement, 
shortly  after,  of  the  man  who  came  to  murder  him  by 
order  of  the  empress,  and  found  his  arm  paralysed  when 
he  lifted  the  sword  to  strike,  and  was  restored  only  when 
he  confessed  his  guilty  intention  and  declared  his  peni- 
tence, needs  no  supernatural  intervention  to  explain  it. 

One  of  the  most  extraordinary  triumphs  of  spiritual  over 
the  civil  power  on  record,  is  the  humiliation  of  the  great 
Theodosius  before  Ambrose.  It  is  paralleled  only  by 
the  penance  of  Henry  II.  before  the  tomb  of  Thomas  a 
Becket.  Theodosius  was  a  man  of  singular  gifts,  both  of 
mind  and  heart,  who  had  attained  by  merit  alone,  without 
the  privilege  of  birth,  to  the  lofty  station  of  Emperor  in 
the  East,  and  finally  of  Emperor  in  the  whole  Roman 
dominion.  Though  he  was  a  devoted  Christian,  and  rever- 
enced the  altars  of  God,  he  wished  to  be  severely  just;  and 
sometimes  his  duties  as  sovereign  seemed  to  conflict  with 
his  duties  as  a  prince  of  the  Church.  In  a  small  town  in 
his  dominion,  the  Cliristians,  in  revenge  for  the  insult  of 
some  Jews  upon  them  on  a  feast-day,  had  pulled  down 
the  Jewish  synagogue.  Theodosius  ordered  the  Christians 
to  build  it  up  again,  and  those  who  had  pulled  it  down  to 
be  severely  punished.  But  he  found  here  a  stern  opposer 
in  Ambrose,  who  contended  that  Justice  could  not  require 
an  act  of  impiety,  and  that  if  it  were  a  crime  for  angry 
men  to  destroy  their  neighbors'  property,  it  were  a  worse 
crime  for  a  Christian  to  build  a  house  of  worship  for  the 
Jew  believer.  This  firmness  overcame  the  monarch's 
sense  of  justice.  The  synagogue  never  rose  from  its  ruins, 
and  the  hope  of  the  Jews  became  vain. 

But  this  and  other  trifling  triumphs  over  the  emperor 
were  only  the  prelude  to  his  greater  and  more  public 
humiliation.  An  outbreak  had  taken  place  at  Thessalon- 
ica,   at  the    time  of  the  chariot  races,   in  which  several 

5 


^'6  AMBROSE. 


officers  of  rank  were  stoned  to  death,  and  their  bodies 
dragged  through  the  streets.  Guided  by  his  own  wrath, 
and  by  the  pernicious  counsels  of  his  favorite  secretary, 
Theodosius  determined  at  once  to  take  exemplary  ven- 
geance, and  administer  a  terrible  rebuke.  A  whole  army 
was  let  loose  upon  the  devoted  city,  neither  age  nor 
sex  were  spared,  and  at  the  end  of  three  hours  seven 
thousand  slain  were  counted  in  promiscuous  massacre. 
When  next  the  emperor  presented  himself  at  the  door  of 
the  church,  he  was  met  by  the  bishop  there,  who  forbade 
him  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  commanded  him  to  disci- 
pline his  polluted  soul  in  the  severest  penance  before  he 
ventured  again  to  enter  the  Courts  of  a  holy  God.*  Eight 
months  long  in  his  chamber  this  penance  endured.  And 
then,  when  the  emperor  came  again,  he  found  that  the 
severe  priest  was  not  satisfied  with  a  private,  but  a  public 
exhibition  of  penitence.  He  was  compelled  by  fear,  and 
a  guilty  conscience,  to  submit.  And  for  many  hours,  the 
people  of  Milan,  as  they  passed  the  great  cathedral,  could 
behold  the  sovereign  of  the  world  prostrate  upon  the 
pavement  of  the  porch,  with  tears  running  down  his  cheeks, 
beating  his  breast,  and  tearing  his  hair,  and  uttering  mourn- 
ful cries, — like  the  vilest  sinner.  It  was  a  splendid 
exhibition  of  the  triumph  of  religion  over  power.  And  it 
is  said  of  the  emjDcror  that  no  day  of  his  after  life  did  he 
fail  to  bewail  the  violation  of  God's  lav/s,  into  which  pas- 
sion had  led  him,  or  to  thank  the  bishop  as  his  spiritual 
Saviour. 

Another  story  is  told  of  the  influence  of  Ambrose  upon 
Theodosius,  which  is  worth  repeating.  On  a  great  festival 
day,  when  Theodosius  brought  his  offering  to  the  altar,  and 
remained  standing  within  the  rails  of  the  chancel,  Ambrose 
asked  him  if  he  wanted  anything  there.  He  answered 
that  he  wished  to  assist  in  administering  the  holy  com- 
munion. The  bishop  then  sent  his  archdeacon  to  him 
with  this  message  :   "  Sir,  it  is  lawful  for  none  but  anointed 

*In  the  Belvidere  gallery  of  Vienna  is  a  great  picture  by  Rubens, 
representing  this  scene.  The  emperor  stands  on  the  left,  on  the  steps 
of  the  church,  surrounded  by  his  guards,  in  the  attitude  of  supplica- 
tion. On  the  right,  and  above,  is  Ambrose,  attended  by  his  minister- 
ing priests,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  repel  the  intruder. 


AMBROSE.  67 


ministers  to  remain  here.  Go  out,  and  stand  with  other 
worshippers.  The  purple  robe  makes  princes,  but  not 
priests.''  Excusing  himself  for  the  fault,  and  thanking 
the  archbisliop  for  his  plainness  of  speech,  he  went  out 
and  stood  with  the  rest.  When  he  returned  to  Constan- 
tinople, instead  of  going  within  the  rails,  as  before,  he 
remained  outside,  upon  which  the  bishop  of  that  city 
summoned  him  to  take  his  former  place.  But  the  humbled 
emperor  answered  with  a  sigh:  "Alas!  how  hard  it  is  for 
me  to  learn  the  difference  between  the  priesthood  and  the 
empire.  I  am  surrounded  with  flatterers,  and  have  found 
only  one  man  who  has  set  me  right,  and  has  told  me  the 
truth.  I  know  but  one  true  bishop  in  the  world,  and  that 
is  Ambrose." 

While  in  the  connection  of  Ambrose  and  Theodosius 
there  is  much  to  remind  us  of  Nathan  and  David,  in  the 
intercourse  of  Ambrose  and  young  Valentinian  there  is  a 
striking  resemblance  to  that  of  Samuel  and  Saul.  The 
intrigues  of  his  mother  did  not  prevent  the  son  from  being 
a  most  docile  pupil :  and  while  in  his  Catholic  zeal  the 
bishop  did  everything  to  save  the  soul  of  the  young  prince 
from  perdition,  by  his  moral  counsels,  he  was  as  faithful  to 
save  his  life  from  corruptions.  Happy  were  it  if  pious  men, 
the  guardians  of  religion,  were  always  as  careful  to  keep 
the  characters  of  their  disciples  spotless,  as  they  are  to 
keep  their  opinions  sound. 

In  the  year  a.  d.  384,  Paganism  received  its  death-blow 
in  the  great  controversy  of  Symmachus  with  Ambrose, 
about  the  setting  up  again  of  the  Altar  of  Victory  in  the 
Senate  house,  and  the  salaries  restored  to  the  order  of 
Vestal  Virgins.  The  controversy  involved  the  great  ques- 
tion of  the  right  of  a  Christian  State  to  protect  or  encour- 
age heathenism.  The  tottering  fabric  of  the  old  mythology 
found  a  noble  supporter  in  Symmachus.  In  him  seemed 
to  be  restored  the  masculine  energy,  vigor,  and  eloquence 
of  the  days  of  the  Republic.  His  splendid  paragraphs 
were  the  echoes  of  voices  from  the  past.  His  appeals 
brought  back  to  patriotism,  the  dignity,  the  splendor,  the 
trophies  of  the  former  time,  when  the  Roman  eagles  and 
the  Roman  gods  together  led  armies  on  to  victory.  In 
sorrowful    numbers    he   sang   a    lament    over   the   fallen 


68  AMBROSE. 


temples,  —  the  bioken  columns,  the  neglected  altars,  and 
sought,  through  pity  for  the  low  estate,  to  awaken  sympathy 
for  the  fortunes  of  the  old  religion.  Then  he  appealed 
with  eloquent  earnestness  to  the  emperor's  sense  of  right : 
"  Shall  not  the  conscience  of  men  be  respected  ?  Shall 
not  the  right  of  the  citizen  to  his  own  worship  be  kept 
sacred  ?  Shall  the  State  persecute  those  whose  reverence 
will  not  allow  them  to  forsake  the  gods  of  their  fathers, 
who  have  given  so  many  blessings  to  Arts  and  to  Arms  ? " 
And  then,  in  ingenious  sorrow,  he  recounts  the  calamities 
which  had  befallen  them  for  their  apostasy,  and  their  for- 
getfulness  of  sacred  things.  The  Genius  of  old  Rome 
spoke  through  him.  And  the  shades  of  heroes,  of  orators, 
of  philosophers,  of  poets,  seemed  to  gather  around  him 
as  he  spoke.  But  they  were  only  shades,  raised  by  the 
magic  of  his  potent  charm,  and  fell  away  again  when 
the  words  of  Ambrose  dissolved  the  charm. 

The  answers  of  Ambrose  to  the  appeals  of  Symmachus 
have  come  down  to  us.  If  they  lack  the  classic  finish,  the 
rhetorical  fullness,  the  varying  play  of  emotion  in  the 
appeals  of  the  accomplished  Pagan,  they  have  all  the 
force  and  earnestness  of  a  confidence  in  the  right  of  his 
cause.  There  is  less  pathos  about  them,  but  there  is  more 
power.  The  reference  is  not  to  the  former  glories,  but  to 
future  judgments.  The  emperor  is  made  to  see  not  the 
triumphs  of  Scipio  and  Caesar,  but  of  the  Tribunal  of  God. 
"  Give  to  the  merit  of  renowned  men,"  says  he,  "  all  that 
is  due,  but  where  God  is  in  question,  think  upon  God. 
No  one  can  be  treated  unjustly,  when  God  is  preferred. 
Nothing  can  be  higher  than  religion,  than  faith.  The 
emperor  is  the  most  exalted  of  men.  But  as  all  serve  him, 
so  should  he  serve  his  God  and  the  true  faith.  Can  he 
who  builds  the  temples  for  idols  be  received  again  into  the 
Church  of  Christ.  How  cans't  thou  answer  the  priest  of 
God  when  he  says  to  thee,  'the  Church  wishes  not  thy 
gifts,  since  thou  hast  profaned  them  to  the  service  of  the 
heathen  ? '  Christ  disdains  the  obedience  of  one  who 
follows  after  idols.  It  is  thy  soul  that  thou  losest  in  seek- 
ing to  bring  falsehood  back."  And  then,  with  clear 
analysis,  he  opens  the  folly  of  referring  the  ancient  glory 
of  the  people  to  its  gods  instead  of  its  7nc'/i,  —  and  humor- 


AMBROSE.  69 


oush'"  asks  if  Jupiter  were  in  the  goose  whose  hissing 
saved  Rome  from  the  Gauls.  He  puts  aside  the  specious 
plea  that  there  are  many  ways  of  serving  and  acknowledg- 
ing God,  by  asking  if  the  revealed  word  of  God  has 
declared  it  so.  "  Has  it  not  said  that  Christ  is  the  only 
name  by  which  men  can  be  saved  .'*  And  when,"  he  indig- 
nantly asks,  "  was  it  ever  known  that  a  heathen  emperor 
listened  to  this  plea  and  built  an  altar  to  Christ." 

Symmachus  had  demanded,  not  as  a  matter  of  right 
alone,  but  as  a  bounty,  that  provision  for  the  priests,  and 
vestals  which  could  support  them  in  becoming  state.  This 
gives  occasion  to  Ambrose  to  contrast  the  heathen  priests 
and  virgins  with  those  of  a  Christian  profession.  He 
shows  the  latter  poor  in  goods,  but  rich  in  grace,  —  seek- 
ing rather  to  deny  than  indulge  themselves,  —  using  their 
own  property  for  the  aid  of  others,  not  coveting  the  goods 
of  others  for  their  own  advantage,  — •  adorning  their  charity 
with  humility,  instead  of  splendor,  —  asking  no  aid  from 
the  ruling  powers,  but  ready  to  give  these  the  blessing  of 
their  prayers.  He  points  to  that  virginity  which  seeks  not 
to  display,  but  to  hide  itself,  not  to  ride  in  a  chariot,  but 
to  kneel  in  a  cloister, —  not  to  go  clothed  in  a  harlot's  colors 
of  gold  and  purple,  but  in  the  white  of  purity  and  the 
black  of  penitence.  Have  the  chaste  matrons,  who  vow 
themselves  to  pious  seclusion,  asked  for  a  stipend  to  nour- 
ish their  idleness?  Have  they  not  rather  filled  their 
seclusion  with  busy  industry  for  the  welfare  of  the  poor 
and  the  suffering?  Do  they  ask  a  bounty  on  their 
prayers?  And  why  should  the  priests  and  virgins  of  a 
dead  religion,  that  even  the  barbarians  have  spurned, 
which  can  show  only  a  few  mouldering  trophies,  but  no 
present  good,  and  no  future  hope,  receive  more  than  do 
the  priests  and  virgins  of  a  religion  which  asks  nothing  of 
the  world  but  to  believe  and  to  obey,  —  which  is  bringing 
the  heathen  into  a  common  fold,  and  making  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth  joyful  together  ?  Woe  to  the 
empire  when  active  virtue  receives  no  gift,  while  lazy 
worthlessness  is  rewarded  with  vestments  and  gold,  when 
the  living  man  is  left  to  starve,  while  the  corpse  is  em- 
balmed and  covered  with  flowers." 

In  such  wise  did  the  Christian  bishop  argue  against  the 


70  AMBBOSE. 


heathen  orator.  And  his  appeal  proved  the  mightier.  No 
concessions  were  made.  The  controversy  seems  insignifi- 
cant to  us  now,  —  and  hardly  can  we  rise  to  its  historical 
grandeur.  But  it  was  the  most  significant  fact  of  the 
time.  The  combatants  were  the  noblest  and  most  emi- 
nent representatives  of  heathenism  and  the  Christianity  of 
the  age.  The  cause  of  each  religion  seems  pleading  in 
their  words.  Symmachus,  the  senator,  full  of  the  tradi- 
tions of  ancient  Rome,  speaks  in  a  poetic  and  elevated 
tone;  he  touches  everything,  he  urges  every  plea,  —  the 
right  of  history,  of  custom,  of  tradition,  of  charity,  of  the 
interest  of  the  State,  the  king,  of  religion  itself.  Where 
one  will  not  do,  he  presses  the  other.  If  faith  in  the  gods 
will  not  prevail,  let  State  policy  be  considered.  In  his 
words  there  is  a  certain  undeniable  sense  of  right.  They 
are  the  last  sorrowful  elegy  on  the  falling  altars  of  ancient 
Rome,  and  they  extort  our  compassion  as  we  follow  them. 
But  they  lack  the  vital  truth.  They  are  an  ingenious  show 
of  justice.  We  first  come  to  the  heart  of  the  matter  when 
we  read  the  clear,  logical,  strong,  living  answer  of  Am- 
brose. Here  is  the  consciousness  of  eternal  truth ;  there 
only  the  defence  of  tottering  error.  The  one  is  the  artist 
who  would  twine  the  wild  vines  beautifully  round  the 
broken  columns,  and  deceive  men  into  worship  there,  — 
the  other  the  architect,  who  would  build  on  the  ruins  a 
temple  meet  for  future  worship.  But  we  turn  from  these 
details  of  controversy,  which,  perhaps,  have  had  for  you 
but  little  interest,  to  behold  Ambrose  in  a  different  sphere 
of  labor,  in  his  literary  and  religious  activity. 

He  was  the  first  poet  of  the  Western  Church,  as  well  as 
its  greatest  bishop.  The  Latin  hymns  of  Ambrose,  unlike 
the  Greek  hymns  of  Synesius,  are  not  so  much  theological 
as  practical,  and  were  intended  from  the  beginning  for  use 
in  the  churches.  In  a  visit  to  Greece,  the  bishop  had  seen 
the  splendid  effect  that  answering  choirs  of  voices  pro- 
duced in  sacred  worship,  and  on  his  return  he  introduced 
it  into  his  own.  He  was  willins^  to  be  tauiiht  bv  adversa- 
ries,  and  the  policy  of  the  Arians  had  proved  that  the 
songs  of  the  Sanctuary  did  more  than  its  creeds  for  the 
conversion  of  souls.  Twelve  hymns  now  remain  to  us  of 
the  composition  of  Ambrose,  though  it  is  probable  he  wrote 


AMBROSE.  71 


many  more.  They  are  used  still  in  the  Roman  Catholic 
service,  and  you  will  find  them  in  the  missal  of  that 
Church.  But  their  sweet  ministry  went  farther  than  the 
public  service.  They  cheered  the  anchorite  in  his  cell,  and 
comforted  the  prisoner  in  his  living  tomb.  The  martyr 
gained  courage  as  he  lifted  their  lines,  and  forgot  the 
devouring  flames  around  him.  They  gave  an  inspiration 
to  hours  of  miserv,  and  brouo-ht  heaven  into  the  soul  that 
was  worn  by  the  weariness  of  earth.  It  is  impossible  in 
any  version,  more  especially  a  literal  version,  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  fire,  the  earnestness,  the  flowing  movement  of 
these  old  Latin  hymns,  —  lacking  altogether  classic  finish 
and  beauty,  —  but  full  of  living  and  longing  faith,  —  what 
the  Germans  call  the  '"' S7£/ing'^  of  devotion.  They  bear 
the  same  relation  to  classic  verses  that  the  Psalmody  of 
the  Methodists  does  to  the  polished  stanzas  of  the  pro- 
fessed poets.  You  may  see  this  illustrated  by  comparing 
the  hymn  of  Charles  Wesley,  "  A  charge  to  keep  I  have," 
with  the  hymn  of  Bishop  Heber  (the  Si 4th  of  our  collec- 
tion), "•  The  God  of  glory  walks  his  round,"  on  the  same 
subject.  The  latter  is  a  stream  of  pure  poetry  and  exqui- 
~site  beauty.     But  the  former  has  the  true  glow  of  inspira- 


tion about  it,  and  will  send  the  blood  tingling  through  the 
veins  when  it  is  sung. 

The  most  famous  hymns  of  Ambrose  are  his  songs  for 
morning  and  evening.  The  contrasts  between  these  are 
beautifully  preserved,  yet  the  same  faith  is  found  in  both. 
The  morning-song  is  written  to  be  sung  at  cock-crow. 

1.  —  The  sullen  darkness  breaks  away, 

See  in  the  East  the  crimson  day  1 

We  own,  great  God,  thy  wondrous  love, 

O  let  it  lift  our  souls  above. 

2.  —  Day's  herald  stirs  our  hearts  to  joy, 

Let  joy  in  prayer  the  hour  employ, 
The  wayward  dream  is  lost  in  light, 
Let  wandering  faith  now  rise  to  sight. 

3.  —  Far  on  the  heaven  the  star  of  dawn 

Gleams  on  the  forehead  of  the  morn. 

A  sacred  emblem  let  it  be, 

Of  Faith  and  Truth  and  Purity. 

4.  —  The  sailor  on  the  billowy  tide 

Bids  now  his  bark  more  boldly  ride, 


72  AMBROSE. 


And  the  penitent  on  bended  knee 

In  the  dim  church-light  his  Christ  doth  see. 


'o' 


5.  —  Hark  !     The  shrill  cock  cries,  —  let  the  sleeper  awake, 

Let  his  leaden  slumbers  their  silence  break, 
Let  him  hear  the  sound  which  calls  him  away 
From  the  waste  of  sleep  to  the  work  of  the  day. 

6.  —  With  the  new  cock-crow  the  weary  find  hope, 

New  faith  in  the  sufferer's  heart  springs  up, 

The  sick  man  draws  a  fresher  breath, 

And  the  sword  of  the  robber  hides  in  its  sheath. 

7.  —  Look  down,  O  Lord,  from  thy  glory  on  high, 

Lend  us  the  light  of  thy  loving  eye. 
Strengthen  us  now  with  thy  heavenly  might. 
Save  us  from  guilt ;  keep  our  souls  right. 

8.  —  A  worthy  song  to  thee  we  would  raise. 

Open  our  lips  to  sing  thy  praise, 
Drive  far  away  the  dreams  of  the  night. 
Illumine  our  hearts.  Celestial  Light. 

The  imperfection  of  this  translation  can  give  you  only 
the  swinging  measure,  and  the  fervent  spirit  of  the  original, 
but  nothing  of  its  genuine  force.*  The  evening  song  is  its 
counterpart.  And  in  all  the  songs  the  beauties  of  Nature 
are  made  suggestive  of  spiritual  thought  and  practical 
duty.  They  are  all  adapted,  too,  to  some  particular  time 
of  worship.  The  famous  song  to  the  Trinity,  which 
Luther  loved  so  much  that  he  translated  it  for  the  Re- 
formed Church,  was  written  for  the  close  of  vespers. 
There  is  no  one  of  our  common  doxologies  that  will  com- 
pare with  it  in  quiet  energy.  It  is  a  thing  which  sacred 
poets  have  not  often  been  able  to  achieve,  to  apostrophize 
the  Trinity,  and  yet  retain  the  idea  of  filial  reverence. 

1.  —  Thou,  who  art  three  in  unity. 

The  true  God  from  eternity, 

The  sun  hath  veiled  his  glorious  face, 

Enfold  us  now  in  thy  embrace. 

2.  —  We  hail  with  praise  the  morning  light, 

We  kneel  in  prayer  with  the  falling  night, 
Thy  name  now  bless,  thy  grace  implore. 
Thee  magnify  for  evermore. 

3.  —  Thee,  Father  of  all.  Eternal  Lord, 

Thee,  Saviour  Son,  the  Incarnate  Word, 
Thee,  Comforter,  Holy  Spirit  of  love. 
Three  on  earth,  one  God  above. 


AMBROSE.  73 


Ambrose  has  been  styled,  in  re2:ard  to  his  hymns,  the 
Luther  of  the  Latin  Church.  He  did  for  the  music  of  this, 
indeed,  what  Luther  did  for  the  music  of  the  German. 
And  to  this  day  several  of  his  ancient  songs  are  sung  in 
the  Lutheran  chapels  from  the  clear,  sonorous  version  of 
the  ereat  Reformer.  The  characteristics  of  Ambrose  as  a 
poet  are  the  same  as  those  of  Luther.  There  is  the  same 
outwardness,  the  same  earnestness  of  faith,  the  same 
practical  character.  x\nd  we  cannot  wonder  that  these 
hymns  have  kept  their  place  for  so  many  centuries,  while 
the  more  finished  Christian  poetry  has  so  much  of  it 
passed  into  oblivion.  For  it  is  not  polished  verse  that 
binds  itself  to  the  heart  of  the  world,  but  rather  those 
simple  strains  which  exhort  to  duty  while  they  cling  to 
faith. 

Ambrose,  as  a  poet,  has  had  much  more  influence  upon 
the  Church,  than  as  a  general  writer.  His  works  are  valu- 
able rather  as  curiosities  of  literature  than  for  their  intrin- 
sic merit.  His  critical  writings  upon  the  various  books  of 
the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  are  mere  specimens  of  alle- 
gorizing, without  the  genius  for  that  kind  of  interpretation. 
He  wrote  a  good  many  doctrinal  books,  but  these  were 
more  successful  in  putting  the  Arians  down  than  in  build- 
ing up  any  substantial  system.  His  general  views  were 
more  Orthodox  than  those  of  the  men  of  his  time.  He 
was  distinct  upon  the  Trinity,  and  his  views  about  deprav- 
ity leaned  to  that  positive  imputation  of  Adam's  sin, 
which  afterwards  became  part  of  the  Catholic  creed.  At 
the  same  time  he  taught  that  a  man  w^ould  be  punished 
only  for  his  own  actual  sins,  and  not  for  those  of  his 
father.  He  anticipates  Luther  in  the  doctrine  of  free 
grace  and  election,  and  hints,  not  obscurely,  at  the  eternal 
misery  of  the  wicked.  To  him  belongs  the  honor,  too,  if 
it  be  an  honor,  of  first  broadly  asserting  the  real  presence 
of  Christ  in  the  Sacrament,  that  the  bread  and  wdne  were 
changed  into  the  body  and  blood  of  the  Saviour.  But  all 
these  doctrines  lie  so  loosely  in  his  writings,  that  they 
teach  no  definite  scheme,  and  seem  of  little  worth.  The 
ascetic  writings  of  Ambrose  are  written  with  more  spirit, 
and  suit  more  his  temper  and  taste.  He  loved  to  think 
and   talk   about  virginity,    and  fasts ;    about  the    duty   of 


74  AMBROSE. 


saints,  and  the  need  of  sacrifices.  He  wrote  with  a  real 
relish  the  biographies  of  various  Scriptural  characters  — 
such  as  Abraham  and  Joseph,  Cain  and  Abel ;  and  his 
remarks  upon  Noah's  Ark  are  as  quaint  and  original  as 
the  description  of  its  length  by  one  of  my  venerable  pre- 
decessors. 

Upon  Christian  ethics,  Ambrose  wrote  a  more  ambitious 
work.  Taking  the  Pagan  Cicero  for  his  guide,  he  laid  down 
a  catalogue  of  virtues  more  in  harmony  with  the  philoso- 
phy of  the  Stoics,  than  the  piety  of  the  Gospel,  'fhere  is 
no  need  here  of  going  into  any  criticism  of  that  system, 
for  it  has  long  ago  been  superseded,  and  never  became  the 
moral  code  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Its  ground  principle 
is  that  the  flesh  and  the  spirit  are  essentially  opposed,  and 
that  the  element  of  all  virtue  is  in  exaltins^  the  latter  and 
depressing  the  former.  He  enumerates  four  cardinal  vir- 
tues :  "  Wisdom,  Justice,  Firmness,  and  Moderation."  A 
strange  classification,  is  it  not,  for  a  Christian,  —  to  leave 
out  everv  one  of  the  beatitudes  ?  It  is  Cicero  restored 
again.  But  Ambrose  gives  a  Christian  interpretation  to 
these.  Wisdom,  he  calls  the  true  relation  of  man  to  God ; 
yustice,  of  man  to  Man ;  FiJ-mness,  of  man  to  outward 
events  \  Moderation,  of  man  to  himself.  In  Christian 
speech,  these  four  virtues  would  be  called  piety,  love,  con- 
tentment, and  self-denial.  And.  the  account  that  he  gives 
of  them  is  of  this  kind.  Under  each  of  these  virtues  he 
brings  up  some  practical  illustration  from  sacred  history, 
generally  from  the  Old  TestameiTt.  It  is,  to  say  the  least, 
a  strange  fancy  which  instances  the  Virgin  Mary  as  an 
example  of  moderation.  The  Scriptures  attribute  to  the 
Virgin  many  excellent  feminine  graces,  but  say  nothing 
about  her  self-denial,  or  her  conflicts  with  the  flesh. 

Ambrose  divides  duties  into  two  classes,  perfect,  and 
partial.  Imperfect  duties  are  those  which  are  common  to 
every  body,  and  which  all  may  easily  fulfill — such  as 
duties  to  parents,  to  teachers,  to  society,  and  the  State. 
Perfect  duties  are  duties  which  only  comjDaratively  few 
can  perform  —  duties  to  the  church,  such  as  celibacy, 
fasting,  prayer,  almsgiving.  In  other  words,  imperfect 
duties  are  those  by  which  a  man  does  all  that  is  necessary 
to  get  along  comfortably ;  perfect,  those  that  are  super- 


AMBROSE.  75 


fluous  and  voluntary,  are  purely  for  the  good  of  man  and 
the  s:lorv  of  God.  There  were  two  ethical  controversies 
into  which  Ambrose  flung  himself  heart  and  soul,  —  con- 
troversies which  have  never  ceased,  and  perhaps  never 
will.  One  is  between  the  "Right"  and  the  "Expedient," 
and  here  by  a  variety  of  ingenious  arguments  he  at- 
tempted to  show  that  expediency  is  never  the  test  of  right, 
but  that  what  the  Church  declares  to  be  right  is  always 
expedient.  A  principle,  you  perceive,  which  worked  its 
result  afterwards  in  the  horrors  of  the  Inquisition,  and  the 
burning  of  heretics.*  The  other  was  whether  the  denial 
or  the  use  of  the  natural  appetites  were  better.  Here 
Ambrose  was  of  the  class  who  would  frown  down  all 
amusements,  would  make  soberness  the  type  of  piety, 
and  make  perfect  holiness  to  consist  in  voluntary  suffer- 
ing. He  would  have  started  with  horror  in  hearing  one 
say  that  the  hands  and  feet  as  well  as  the  heart  and  soul 
were  meant  for  the  pleasure  of  men.  And  he  became  a 
remorseless  persecutor  of  those  who  plead  for  a  natural 
and  genial  life.  The  satirical  pen  of  Jerome  was  aided 
by  the  Episcopal  will  of  Ambrose  in  crushing  the  bold 
Jovinian,  whose  only  crime  was  in  holding  that  every 
creature  of  God  was  good,  that  the  world  was  made  to 
rejoice,  and  not  to  weep  in,  and  that  happiness  was  better 
than  living  martyrdom. 

But  though  Ambrose  was  not  adverse  to  controversy,  and 
was  ready  to  fight  in  defense  of  the  truth  he  loved  best, 
the  sacred  privileges  of  his  Episcopal  duty,  and  the  sacred 
rights  of  God's  altar,  the  Saint  most  appeared  when  he 
led  the  devotions  on  the  holy  day  of  the  kneeling  throng, 
when  he  spoke  to  them  of  the  great  sacrifice,  and  asked 
for  them  saving  mercy.  To  him  the  Church  was  truly  the 
gate  of  heaven.  He  felt  the  joy  as  well  as  the  profit  of 
worship.  The  service  of  prayer  never  became  to  him  com- 
mon because  familiar.  He  cared  for  the  decencies  of 
God's  house,  because  he  felt  God's  presence  there.     And 

*  While  Ambrose  thus  by  his  theory  prepared  the  way  for  religious 
persecution  it  should  be  mentioned  in  his  honor,  that  he  protested 
against  the  execution  of  Priscillian  for  heresy,  and  refused  to  hold 
communion  with  the  bishops  who  sanctioned  this.  Priscillian  was 
the  first  whom  Christians  put  to  death  for  conscience  sake. 


76  AMBROSE. 


he  is  usually  painted  in  his  Episcopal  chair,  with  simple 
dif^nity  dispensing  a  benediction  to  the  humble  Chris- 
tians too  happy  in  feeling  his  hand  upon  their  heads.  He 
loved,  too,  the  various  duties  of  a  bishop's  life,  —  to  com- 
pose the  strifes  of  foes,  to  judge  in  doubtful  causes,  to 
give  faith  to  a  doubting  soul,  —  to  give  hope  to  a  breaking 
heart.  He  loved  to  send  help  to  the  needy  ;  he  loved  to 
speak  peace  to  the  sufferer.  Often  his  presence  by  night 
in  the  poor  man's  cottage  seemed  sent  from  God,  often  his 
fervent  prayer  made  the  death-bed  happy.  He  who  could 
humble  an  Emperor,  loved  better  to  comfort  the  mourner, 
and  save  the  sinner.  His  visit  purified  the  heart  of  vice, 
his  voice  was  music  in  the  home  of  sorrow.  From  rebuke 
to  compassion,  from  instruction  to  mercy,  from  judgment 
to  pardon,  his  life  continually  passed.  In  the  morning  he 
spoke  to  the  crowd  in  the  great  Cathedral,  that  now  is  the 
accepted  time,  now  is  the  day  of  salvation.  At  noon, 
Avhen  they  crowded  his  palace  with  their  gifts  for  judg- 
ment, his  word  to  each  was,  "  Go  thy  way,  be  reconciled  to 
thy  brother,  and  then  come  and  offer  thy  gift."  At  night 
he  cheered  the  lonely  one  in  her  humble  home  with  the 
Saviour's  call,  "Come  unto  me  all  ve  that  labor  and  are 
heavy  laden  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  He  was  a  true 
bishop,  fearing  never  the  frown  of  man,  but  caring  always 
for  every  child  of  God.  His  heart  was  an  asylum  for  the 
fears  and  the  sorrows  of  his  fiock,  as  he  would  have  the 
Church  an  asylum  for  the  persecuted.  He  was  a  true 
bishop  in  discretion.  His  firmness  never  became  ob- 
stinate, his  zeal  never  became  reckless,  his  dogmatism 
never  became  arrogant.  He  denounced  the  errors,  but 
did  not  asperse  the  fame,  of  heretics.  He  rebuked  the 
sins,  but  did  not  insult  the  dignity  of  monarchs.  He  re- 
lieved the  wants  without  despising  the  state  of  the  poor. 
He  was  patient  in  hearing,  calm  in  deciding,  prompt  in 
acting.  His  ambition  was  not  to  be  served,  but  to  serve. 
He  counted  no  day  lost  that  was  spent  in  making  others 
happy,  peaceful,  or  faithful.  He  carried  in  one  hand  the 
blessing  of  an  earthly  life,  in  the  other  the  key  of  a 
heavenly  kingdom.  At  the  altar  he  stood  to  interpret 
mysteries,  in  the  house,  to  minister  mercies,  and  it  is  hard 
to  tell  in  which  his  work  was  holiest.     He  had  all  the  con- 


AMBROSE .  77 


sciousness,  with  none  of  the  pride,  of  influence.  He  was 
o^rateful  for  his  office  without  being  vain  of  it,  and  he 
strove  to  magnify  it  not  by  many  pretensions,  but  by  ahns, 
and  prayers,  and  the  salvation  of  souls.  He  defended 
the  monastic  theory,  but  he  did  not  use  the  monastic  prac- 
tice. He  exercised  the  piety  which  the  hermit  spent  in 
seclusion,  in  bringing  men  to  God.  And  in  an  age  when 
men  thought  that  their  truest  duty  was  to  remove  from 
duty,  his  example  proved  that  an  active  love  is  better  than 
a  contemplative  virtue.  With  the  other  great  men  who 
make  up  wdth  him  the  four  great  Doctors  of  the  Western 
Church  he  will  not  compare  in  learning,  genius,  or  strength 
of  soul.  But  he  is  the  greatest  Saint  among  them,  and 
did  more  good  in  his  day  and  generation  than  they  all. 

The  Easter  of  the  year  397,  was  a  sad  and  solemn  festi- 
val for  the  Church  at  Milan.  For  the  manly  form  and 
countenance  that  had  so  often  bent  down  there  before  the 
silent  throns:  in  fervent  entreatv  and  sweet  benediction, 
now  lay  in  the  sleep  of  death  before  the  altar.  It  was  a 
touching  story  that  they  told  of  his  dying,  how  the  em- 
peror, afraid  for  his  whole  dominion  if  this  good  man  died, 
called  his  nobility  and  magistrates  together  and  persuaded 
them  to  go  to  Ambrose  and  ask  him  to  beg  of  God  a 
longer  life,  —  how  he  refused  to  ask  God  to  change  his 
plans  —  or  to  delay  the  hour  of  his  release,  — what  won- 
derful signs  prophesied  his  near  spiritual  glory,  a  flame  in 
the  form  of  a  shield  creeping  over  his  face,  his  body  lying 
with  the  hands  extended  in  the  form  of  the  cross,  his 
sight  of  Jesus  coming  smiling  towards  him.  They  told  of 
his  last  words,  and  his  last  look,  and  of  the  peaceful  sink- 
ing of  his  breath  away.  And  then  he  seemed  to  be 
bending  again  above  the  weeping  crowd,  and  a  voice  to 
be  heard,  "  Weep,  friends,  no  longer ;  Him  whom  ye  loved 
is  not  here.     He  is  risen." 

St.  Ambrose  has  enjoyed  the  rare  honor  of  a  place  on 
the  calendar  of  the  Greek  as  well  as  the  Latin  Church, 
His  name  stands  beside  that  of  Chrysostom  and  Basil 
there,  and  so  wherever  the  memory  of  the  Fathers  is  kept 
sacred,  his  hath  its  appropriate  season.  There  are  many 
who  claim  to  possess  portions  of  his  holy  relics,  and  it  is 
probable  that  not  many  of  the  bones  are  left  where  they 


78  AMBROSE. 


were  laid  at  first.  The  city  in  which  he  labored  and  died 
has  lonor  since  been  troubled  about  other  thin^rs  than  the 
preservation  of  relics.  But  his  bones  are  not  needed 
to  keep  him  in  mind  there.  So  long  as  the  great  cathedral, 
the  miracle  of  art,  stands  proudly  there  in  the  public 
square,  so  long  as  white-robed  priests  celebrate  the  service 
at  its  altar,  so  long  as  the  immortal  ministry  of  the  latef 
saint,  the  good  Borromeo,  is  fresh  in  the  affection  of  the 
people,  will  the  thought  of  this  great  spiritual  father  stay 
there.  Rome  may  lose  from  his  holy  seat  her  Pope,  the 
memory  of  her  orators  and  patriarchs  may  pass  away, — 
but  the  name  of  Ambrose  will  linger  in  Milan,  deserted 
though  it  should  be,  as  a  holier  name  still  lingers  in  and 
sanctifies  the  desolate  walls  of  Jerusalem. 


AUGUSTINE.  79 


11. 
ST.  AUGUSTINE   AND    HIS   INFLUENCE. 

How  patient  and  powerful  is  a  mother's  love !  Hopeful 
in  every  sorrow,  bearing  up  against  every  disgrace  and  sin 
of  him  she  loves,  never  desperate,  never  indifferent.  How 
many  of  the  world's  greatest  benefactors  have  been  made 
so  by  a  mother's  enduring  affection  !  To  this  sentiment 
the  Christian  Church  owes  its  brightest  names ;  and  to 
none  is  its  debt  of  gratitude  more  due  than  to  Monica,  the 
mother  of  St.  Augustine.  Her  untiring  love  and  prayers 
kept  the  youth  from  realizing  in  manhood  his  youthful  ten- 
dencies, and  saved  to  the  ancient  Church  her  greatest 
light. 

The  scene  of  our  sketches,  thus  far,  has  been  laid  in  the 
East  and  in  the  North  ;  in  Bethlehem  of  Judea ;  in  Milan, 
the  frontier  city  ;  and  in  Rome,  the  ancient  capital  of  the 
world.  We  shall  turn  now  to  the  land  of  a  Southern 
clime,  where  the  associations,  both  historical  and  religious, 
if  less  numerous  and  splendid,  are  not  less  striking  than 
in  the  East  and  the  North.  We  have  spoken  of  the 
great  men  who,  in  Asia  and  in  Europe,  represented  the 
speech  and  the  spirit  of  the  Catholic  Church.  We  turn 
now  to  Africa,  to  find  its  areatest  thinker.  The  scholar 
and  the  bishop  need  their  complement  in  the  theologian. 
The  biblical  labors  of  the  one,  the  pastoral  purity  of  the 
other,  may  be  viewed  now  as  harmonizing  into  a  life  of 
rare  powers  and  combinations. 

He  whom  we  shall  speak  of  in  this  lecture,  was  the  con- 
vert of  Ambrose,  and  the  correspondent  of  Jerome; 
receiving  from  the  one,  piety  of  heart :  receiving  from  the 
other,  accuracy  of  knowledge,  and  uniting  the  excellence 
of  both  to  original  qualities  possessed  by  neither. 

Rarely  have  the  lives  of  the  saints  furnished  us  witli 
such  rich  material  as  the  memorials  of  Augustine,  which 


8o  AUGUSTINE. 


are  left  behind.  Besides  that  most  voluminous  correspon- 
dence on  every  variety  of  subject,  besides  those  multifarious 
treatises  which  ^rive  us  everv  shade  of  the  author's 
thought,  we  have  from  his  own  pen  a  book  of  Confessions, 
which  trace  his  spiritual  history  with  a  minuteness  as 
admirable  as  the  candor  with  which  they  expose  his  frail- 
ties. More  than  these,  he  had  his  Boswell  in  an  admiring 
deacon,  Possidius  by  name,  whose  panegyric  upon  Augus- 
tine gives  us  a  higher  opinion  of  .its  subject  than  of  its 
author.  And  if  all  else  were  lost  about  him,  the  multitude 
of  allusions  from  contemporary  writers,  would  give  us  a 
quite  complete  biography.  The  controversy  that  Jerome 
carried  on  with  him  exhibits  the  mildness  and  ability  of 
one  foe,  while  it  shows  the  conceit  and  scholarship  of  the 
other. 

In  the  year  354,  on  the  13th  of  November,  at  the  little 
town  of  Thagaste,  not  far  from  Carthage,  in  Africa,  was 
born  a  child,  who  received  from  his  parents  the  name  of 
Aurelius  Augustine.  The  father,  a  nobleman  of  that 
region,  arbitrary  in  his  temper,  a  \vorldly  believer  in  the 
Pagan  gods,  and  a  strong  adherent  to  Imperial  rule,  might 
rejoice  most  in  the  surname  which  called  back  the  greatest 
and  most  arbitrary  of  Roman  monarchs,  and  the  palmy 
days  of  Pagan  rule.  But  the  mother  might  have  a  prophe- 
tic Christian  hope  in  giving  us  a  Christian  name,  Aurelius, 
(signifying  a  sun  of  gold),  for  she  was  a  devoted  Christian, 
and  trusted  vet  to  convert  her  husband  to  the  faith  of 
Jesus.  To  both  was  the  child  a  child  of  promise :  to  the 
father,  as  one  who  should  establish  the  fame  of  the  states- 
man and  the  philosopher ;  to  the  mother,  as  one  who  should 
become  a  good  steward  of  the  grace  of  God.  The  differ- 
ing tastes  of  the  parents,  though  perhaps  not  favorable  to 
their  domestic  happiness,  were  of  advantage  in  making 
the  son  complete  in  his  education.  The  classical  and 
rhetorical  teachings  of  Patricius  were  tempered  and  sancti- 
tified  by  the  prayers  of  Monica. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  infancy  and  childhood  of  Augus- 
tine that  is  especially  remarkable.  Rather  less  than  the 
usual  quantity  of  miracles  seemed  to  mark  him  above  his 
fellows.  He  seems  to  have  been  pretty  much  like  other 
boys  of  a  sanguine  temperament,  —  rather  fond  of  having 


AUGUSTINE.  81 


his  own  way,  and  ready  for  fun  of  any  kind, — especially 
if  it  involved  the  element  of  roguery.  He  tells  us  in  his 
Confessions,  with  great  minuteness,  his  boyish  foibles;  and 
we  recognize  in  his  account  of  robbing  his  neighbor's  pear 
tree  with  other  boys,  just  for  sport,  while  he  tiung  the  fruit 
away  as  not  fit  to  eat,  a  characteristic  of  boyhood  almost 
everywhere.  The  tears  and  entreaties  of  his  mother  did 
not  quite  succeed  in  making  him  a  good  boy  according  to 
the  received  standards.  He  had  no  great  taste  for  studv. 
though  he  loved  Latin,  his  own  tongue,  and  especially  the 
poetry  in  it.  But  Greek  took  too  much  labor,  and  mathe- 
mathics  were  his  special  aversion.  The  difficulties  of  a 
modern  school-boy  in  learning  the  multiplication  table  could 
not  be  more  severe  than  those  of  this  eminent  saint.  And 
yet  the  boy  was  very  bright,  and  though  he  would  not  study 
hard,  and  loved  to  hunt  and  catch  birds,  and  loiter  about 
more  than  he  loved  his  books,  he  was  somehow  or  other 
always  ready,  and  was  the  first  among  his  equals.  His 
father  was  very  proud  of  him  and  sent  him  away  to  school, 
first  to  Madaura,  where  he  learned  grammar  and  rhetoric, 
and  afterwards  to  Carthage,  which  was  the  Collegiate  City 
of  Africa, — what  Rome  was  to  Italy  and  Athens  to 
Greece.  In  these  places  his  progress  in  knowledge  and 
dissipation  was  alike  conspicuous.  He  became  eminent  as 
a  fast  man,  as  well  as  a  strong  man,  familiarized  himself 
with  all  kinds  of  vice,  and  gained  a  knowledge  of  the 
world  in  her  sins,  as  well  as  of  wisdom  in  her  treasures. 
His  mother's  remonstrances  he  despised,  —  thinking  them 
to  be  mere  womanly  weakness.  He  had  a  great  respect 
for  Christianity,  but  no  faith  or  interest  in  it.  Even  his 
father's  death  did  not  turn  him  from  his  course.  If  it  led 
him  to  apply  himself  to  study  as  a  means  of  support  for 
himself  and  those  whom  nature,  and  whom  his  own  folly  or 
vice  had  made  dependent  on  him,  it  did  not  soften  his 
heart  or  convert  him  to  the  Gospel.  His  head  soon 
became  turned  by  the  various  theories  which  he  stumbled 
upon,  but  it  was  fortunate  for  him  that,  among  the  rest, 
he  fell  upon  the  Hortensius  of  Cicero,  a  philosophical 
v/ork  now  lost,  which  kindled  in  him  a  great  ardor  for 
philosophy,  and  a  great  disgust  for  his  irregular  mode 
of  life.  He  gave  up  his  boon  companions  at  once,  and 
6 


82  AUGUSTINE. 


henceforward  devoted  himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  the 
search  after  truth.  His  pursuit  of  this  end  only  made 
him  more  eajrer  as  he  failed  to  find  truth  in  the  works  of 
heathen  philosophers.  He  felt  that  there  was  something 
wanting  in  Aristotle  and  Cicero.  They  gave  him  specula- 
tion, where  he  craved  assurance.  And  his  early  Christian 
associations  still  lingered  by  him.  He  remembered  the 
name  of  Jesus,  so  often  mentioned  in  his  mother's  prayers  ; 
and  he  could  not  get  over  the  feeling  that  the  name  of 
Christ  ought  to  be  found  in  everv  religious  treatise.  His 
dissatisfaction  became  such  that  he  finally  determined  to 
read  the  Bible,  a  book  of  which  he  had  heard  a  good  deal 
from  his  mother,  but  which  his  father  did  not  think 
much  of.  It  disappointed  him  very  much.  Its  style  seemed 
tame  compared  with  the  flowing  and  stately  rhetoric  of  the 
heathen  orators,  and  the  ideas  in  it  too  simple  and  practi- 
cal to  suit  his  notion  of  the  dignity  of  religious  truths.  He 
gave  up  the  Bible  accordingly  very  soon,  and  went  back  to 
philosophical  speculations  to  find  a  faith.  It  is  not  un- 
common for  young  men  of  twenty  or  thereabouts  to  see  in 
philosophy  an  answer  to  the  questions  abour  life  and  death 
and  God,  which  perplexed  them.  The  most  tempting 
solution  which  St.  Augustine  seemed  to  find  was  in  the 
sect  of  the  Manicheans. 

This  Manichean  sect  had  a  mixed  origin  from  the 
mythology  of  Persia  and  the  mysticism  of  the  Gnostics, 
drawing  from  the  first  its  doctrine  of  sin,  and  the  second 
its  doctrine  of  emanations  from  God.  Manes,  its 
founder,  was  a  Chaldean  by  birth,  and  flourished  during 
the  latter  half  of  the  third  century.  He  incorporated 
into  his  svstem  the  leading  features  of  the  Persian  dual- 


ism,—  of  two  eternal  antagonist  principles,  of  good  and 
evil,  which  he  gave  names  to  and  ranked  as  equal  gods. 
He  took  the  spiritual  system  of  Plato,  and  taught  that 
everything  in  nature  has  a  soul.  In  every  man  he  thought 
that  there  were  two  souls,  —  an  angel  and  a  demon,  —  the 
angel -soul,  created  there  by  the  good  God;  and  the 
demon-soul,  created  there  by  the  bad  God.  Throughout 
his  system  there  was  the  strangest  mixture  of  spirituality 
and  absurdity,  of  vagaries  and  of  Christian  precepts,  —  of 
high  and  of  weak  morality.     He  spoiled  his  denial  of  the 


AUGUSTINE.  83 


resurrection  of  the  flesh, — which  was  a  sensible  advance 
upon  the  common  faith,  —  by  affirming  the  transmigration 
of  souls,  which  was  a  return  to  the  old  Pythagorean  fancy. 
The  morality  which  he  taught  was  in  some  respects  yery 
high  and  pure,  in  others,  yery  puerile.  It  carried  the  princi- 
ple of  temperance  so  far  as  to  refuse  the  wine  of  the  Lord's 
Supper,  and  would  not  pluck  an  edible  root  or  fruit  for  fear 
of  injuring  the  soul  which  dwelt  within  it.  It  was  a  strange 
mixture  of  hardness  of  heart  and  sensitiyeness  of  fancy. 
It  cared  for  the  souls  of  men,  yet  neglected  their  wants. 
But  its  yery  peculiarities  caused  the  system  of  Manes  to 
spread,  and  at  the  time  of  Augustine  it  was  a  popular  and 
powerful  philosophical  sect.  The  young  rhetorician  was 
captiyated  by  its  specious  pretensions.  It  flattered  his 
spiritual  pride  in  pretending  to  initiate  him  into  spiritual 
secrets.  And  it  jiaye  a  mystical  answer  to  those  doubts 
about  God  and  the  origin  of  eyil,  which  he  found  so  per- 
plexing. He  gaye  himself  to  the  sect,  and  was  nine  years 
a  warm  adherent.  But  the  ignorance  and  pretensions  of 
a  certain  eminent  Dr.  Faustus  opened  his  eyes,  and  he  was 
then  amazed  that  he  had  remained  in  the  absurdities  and 
darkness  of  Manicheism  so  long. 

During  most  of  this  period,  from  the  age  of  nineteen  to 
twenty-eight,  he  was  a  teacher  of  rhetoric,  first  at  his 
native  town,  Thagaste,  and  then  at  Carthage.  The  tears 
and  prayers  of  his  mother,  for  his  recovery  from  corrup- 
tion of  life  and  his  impious  faith,  were  incessant.  And 
when  she  was  ready  to  despair,  prodigies  were  ministered 
to  keep  up  her  faith.  Finding  that  her  own  manifestations 
of  abhorrence  had  very  little  effect, — for  she  showed  this 
by  refusing  to  sit  or  eat  with  him,  —  she  tried  to  get  the 
Bishop  of  Thagaste  to  persuade  him  into  the  truth.  But 
this  prelate  was  sagacious  enough  to  evade  such  an  honor- 
able, but  arduous,  task,  and  excused  himself  by  saying 
that  Augustine  was  so  intoxicated  by  the  novelty  of  his 
heresy,  and  so  puffed  up,  that  talking  would  be  of  no  use  ; 
for  he  had  already  puzzled  sorely  divers  Catholics  of  more 
zeal  than  learning,  who  had  attempted  to  argue  the  matter 
with  him.  When  she  still  persisted  in  entreating  him,  he 
dismissed  her  with  the  comfortable  prophecy,  ''  Go  your 
way,  —  God  bless  you,  — it  cannot  be  that  a  child  of  those 


84  AUGUSTINE. 


tears  should  perish."  She  had  a  very  cheering  dream, 
too,  in  which  she  saw  a  young  man,  who,  when  she  had 
told  him  all  her  troubles,  bid  her  keep  a  good  heart,  for 
her  son  should  be  where  she  was;  and  then  turning  round 
she  saw  him  on  the  same  plank  with  herself.  When  thus 
her  prayers  were  just  ready  to  faint  and  expire,  then  sud- 
denly they  revived  again. 

The  most  serious  impression  made  upon  Augustine  in 
this  period,  was  from  the  death  of  an  early  and  bosom 
friend,  the  companion  of  his  studies,  his  follies,  and  his 
heresies.  This  young  man,  soon  after  he  became  a  Chris- 
tian, died  of  a  short  sickness,  and  the  ridicule  of  Augustine 
for  his  new-born  piety  was  changed  into  anguish  at  his 
loss.  He  has  left  us  a  touching  story  of  his  grief,  of 
the  vacancy  that  came  into  his  heart,  and  the  darkness 
which  came  over  his  plans  of  life.  He  felt  now  the  inade- 
quacy of  his  philosophy,  but  instead  of  seeking  in  the 
consoling  faith  of  his  mother  for  comfort,  he  plunged  more 
into  those  pursuits  of  worldliness  and  ambition  which 
could  drown  the  memory  of  his  loss.  He  became  first  in 
all  the  public  disputations,  renowned  as  an  orator,  adroit 
as  a  pleader,  and  entered  more  eagerly  into  theatrical 
pleasures  and  scientific  studies,  gradually  growing  more 
and  more  restless  as  he  failed  to  find  happiness  in  these. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-nine  Augustine  came  to  a  turning- 
point  in  his  life.  He  had  become  weary  of  his  useless 
labors,  sick  of  his  round  of  follies,  and  skeptical  in  all 
matters  of  inquiry.  He  was  solitary,  tired  and  sad. 
Truth  seemed  no  where  to  lie  around  him,  the  pursuits 
of  the  world  to  be  vain,  and  no  hope  opened  beyond  them. 
There  was  darkness  behind  and  darkness  before  him. 
And  as  he  found  his  astrology  worthless  in  really  acquaint- 
ing him  with  the  stars  above,  so  he  found  his  Manichean 
philosophy  weak  in  interpreting  the  hidden  laws  of  God 
and  life.  In  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts  one  bright  idea 
struck  him.  He  would  break  awav  from  his  loose  com- 
panions,  and  go  to  Rome,  the  great  centre  of  power  to  the 
universe,  of  which  from  his  childhood  he  had  heard  so 
manv  sing^ular  stories.  He  would  trv  now  his  talents  on  a 
broader  sphere,  and  show  those  proud  patricians  that  as 
the  arms  of  Hannibal  conquered  them  once  in  their  own 


AUGUSTINE.  85 


homes,  so  now  the  art  of  another  xA.frican  should  captivate 
them  there.  He  stole  away  therefore  by  night  to  escape 
the  entreaties  of  his  mother,  whose  first  despair  was 
lightened  by  hope,  when  she  remembered  that  he  was 
going  to  a  Christian  city.  But  his  first  impressions  of 
Rome  were  saddened  bv  a  violent  fever,  which  took  him 
after  his  arrival,  and  kept  him  for  a  long  time  at  the  point 
of  death.  On  his  recovery  he  set  himself  to  teaching 
rhetoric,  and  had  what  seemed  distinguished  success. 
Scholars  flocked  to  his  classes,  the  wits  and  orators 
courted  his  society,  and  the  great  Symmachus,  who  was 
then  in  the  height  of  his  power,  became  his  friend.  But 
Rome  did  not  satisfy  him  more  than  Carthage.  If  the 
students  were  less  profligate,  they  were  more  fickle  ;  if 
they  were  less  fond  of  show,  they  were  more  mean.  The 
Christianity  of.  the  city  seemed  to  him  a  farce,  and  its 
daily  life  a  comedy.  In  his  own  heart  he  felt  that  the 
tragedy  was  acting.  And  he  was  glad  therefore  when,  on 
a  summons  from  the  emperor,  he  was  sent  by  Symmachus 
to  Milan,  greater  then  in  the  reputation  of  its  bishop  than 
as  the  Imperial  City. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  Augustine,  when  he  first  heard  in 
the  Milan  cathedral  a  sermon  from  Ambrose.  He  had 
heard  before  from  his  Manichean  teachers  more  brilliant 
oratory,  but  never  had  he  heard  such  solid  reasoning,  such 
vastness  of  knowledge,  such  profoundness  of  thought,  or 
such  a  spirit  of  sincere  faith.  It  seemed  to  open  to  him 
another  world.  And  though  he  went  only  to  gratify  his 
curiosity,  yet  the  impression  remained  with  him,  that  there 
was  something  good  in  a  superstition  which  could  make  so 
great  a  man  its  servant.  The  impression  was  deepened 
by  the  subsequent  close  acquaintance  which  he  formed 
with  the  great  bishop.  The  dignified  mildness,  the  calm 
wisdom,  the  insight  into  the  spiritual  meaning  of  those 
dark  passages  of  Scripture,  which  had  seemed  nonsense  to 
his  Manichean  view,  and  above  all,  the  poetical  sentiment 
of  the  mind  and  language,  while  they  showed  the  superi- 
ority of  the  great  Christian  teacher  to  all  other  philoso- 
phers, commended  also  silently  his  doctrine  to  the  heart  of 
Augustine.  Day  by  day  he  felt  himself  coming  under  the 
fascinations  of  that  wonderful  character  and  intellect.     And 


86  AUGUSTINE. 


even  while  his  reason  was  resisting,  his  heart  was  giving 
way.  It  was  a  delightful  message  that  brought  to  his 
mother  the  news  that  Ambrose  was  the  friend  of  her  son, 
and  it  brought  the  mother  to  his  side.  It  needed  the 
prayers  of  a  mother  to  confirm  the  work  which  had  been 
be2:un  in  the  soul  of  Auirustine. 

But  the  process  of  Augustine's  conversion  was  slow  and 
gradual.  His  was  not  a  mind  to  yield  at  once  to  the  im- 
pression of  the  moment  or  to  be  carried  away  by  novelty. 
He  was  a  seeker  after  truth,  and  his  tastes  were  scientific, 
rather  than  religious.  During  the  two  years  that  he 
remained  at  Milan,  he  examined  and  rejected  many 
heathen  views  and  gained  what,  after  all,  is  the  needful 
foundation  for  Christian  faith,  humility  and  self-dis- 
trust. At  first,  he  read  Plato  and  Plotinus  with  great 
delight.  For  they  corrected  his  gross  corporeal  notions  of 
the  essence  of  God,  and  represented  him  as  a  purely 
spiritual  being.  But  he  did  not  find  that  Plato  solved  for 
him  the  problem  of  life,  or  made  him  wise  in  regard  to 
the  future.  He  turned  then  to  Paul,  and  found  great 
delight  in  his  Epistles,  so  strikingly  opposite  in  their  reli- 
gious earnestness  to  anything  that  be  had  before  read. 
They  created  in  him  the  desire  to  become  a  Christian, 
which  is  the  second  step  in  the  Christian  life.  But  still 
the  desire  was  a  long  time  in  passing  into  its  fulfillment. 
He  has  given    us    in    his   Confessions    a    most    affecting 


account  of  his  strong  inward  conflicts,  —  how  the  earthly 
passions  warred  there  with  the  spiritual  desire^  how  the 
flesh  strove  with  the  spirit,  with  what  reluctance  his  sinful 
heart  yielded,  little  by  little,  its  convulsive  hold  upon 
the  world.  And,  perhaps,  the  worldly  attraction  would 
have  proved  stronger  at  last,  but  for  the  yielding  of  some 
weaker  friends  to  the  religious  impulse.  Augustine  had 
not  his  mother  only,  but  also  a  son  by  his  side, — a  child 
of  early  sin,  but  not  the  less  dear  to  his  heart  for  that. 
And  when  he  saw  this  child  giving  his  heart  to  God,  —  the 
sternness  of  the  strong  man  was  melted  and  broken. 

I  cannot  here  go  over  the  minute  and  strikinsr  account 
which  Augustine  gives  of  his  own  conversion, — those 
bitter  regrets,  those  burning  tears,  that  wrestling  with  the 
tempter,  reminding  us  of  St.  Anthony  in  his  night-visions; 


AUGUSTINE,  87 


those  conversations  with  his  friend  Alipius,  as  they  walked 
in  their  garden,  reminding  us  of  Socrates  in  the  groves  of 
the  Academy.  One  day  they  were  visited  here  by  Ponti- 
tianus,  a  simple  menial  in  the  emperor's  household,  but 
an  eminent  Christian,  who  related  to  them,  in  a  sincere 
and  unaffected  way,  the  story  of  his  own  conversion, 
caused  bv  reading  the  life  of  St.  Anthonv.  No  sooner 
had  he  gone  than  Augustine  broke  out  in  these  words  to 
his  friend  :  "  What  are  we  doing,  who  thus  suffer  the  un- 
learned to  start  up,  and  seize  heaven  by  force,  whilst  we, 
with  all  our  knowledge,  remain  cowardly  and  heartless, 
and  wallow  still  in  the  mire  ?  What !  because  thev  have 
outstripped  us,  and  are  gone  before,  are  we  ashamed  to 
follow  them  1  Is  it  not  more  shameful  not  to  follow 
them  ?  "  He  then  rose,  in  a  violent  excitement,  and  paced 
through  the  garden  like  one  beside  himself.  He  seemed 
to  see  religion  stretching  out  her  arms  to  receive  him,  and 
ojffering  him  all  chaste  and  holy  delights.  Yet  all  around 
him  were  a  legion  of  demons,  for  these  were  the  forms 
that  his  former  pleasures  took,  and  they  shrieked  and 
threatened  if  he  should  go  with  their  enemy  away.  At 
last,  in  an  agony  of  despair,  he  threw  himself  down  under 
a  fig-tree,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  "  How  long," 
he  cried.  "  How  long,  O  Lord  ?  To-morrow  !  To-mor- 
row !  Why  does  not  this  hour  put  an  end  to  my  trans- 
gression 1 "  As  he  cried  thus,  he  heard  the  voice 
of  a  child  in  a  neighboring  house,  singing  a  song,  the 
refrain  of  which  was,  "  ToUe,  lege,  —  tolle,  lege,  take  up 
and  read."  He  was  struck  by  the  words,  and  not  being 
able  to  recollect  that  he  had  ever  heard  them  before  in  a 
child's  song,  it  seemed  to  him  a  divine  voice.  He  went 
back  quickly  to  his  friend,  and  took  up  the  volume  of  St. 
Paul's  Epistles,  which  he  had  left  there,  opened  it,  and  read 
the  following  words,  the  first  on  which  his  eyes  fell :  "  Let 
us  walk  honestly,  as  in  the  day,  not  in  rioting  and  drunken- 
ness,—  not  in  impurity  and  wantonness,  —  not  in  strife 
and  envying;  —  but  put  ye  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and 
make  no  provision  for  the  flesh  with  its  lusts."  It  was 
enough,  he  read  no  farther,  but  calmly  handed  the  book  to 
his  friend,  marking  the  place.  Alipius  read  it,  and  finding 
that  the  next  words  were,  "  Him  that  is  weak  in  the  faith 


88  AUGUSTINE. 


receive,"  —  applied  them  to  himself,  and  joined  his  friend 
in  his  sudden  purpose  to  adopt  a  Christian  life  of  self- 
denial.  x\ugustine  thus  breaks  out  into  rapturous  joy  at 
the  thought  of  his  conversion.  "  O,  how  sweet  did  it 
become  to  lose  the  sweets  of  my  former  follies !  What  I 
had  been  so  much  afraid  to  lose,  I  now  cast  from  me  with 
joy;  for  thou  has  expelled  them  for  me,  who  art  the  true 
and  sovereign  sweetness  ;  thou  did'st  expel  them,  and 
earnest  in  thyself  instead  of  them,  sweeter  than  any  pleas- 
ure whatever,  but  not  to  flesh  and  blood  ;  brighter  than 
any  light  whatever,  but  more  interior  than  any  secret, 
higher  than  any  dignity  whatever,  but  not  to  those  who 
are  hio-h  in  their  own  conceit.  Now  was  mv  mind  free 
from  the  gnawing  cares  of  the  ambition  of  honor,  of  the 
acquisition  of  riches,  and  of  weltering  in  pleasures  ;  and 
my  infant  tongue  began  to  lisp  to  thee,  my  Lord  God,  my 
true  honor,  my  riches  and  my  salvation."  Augustine  was 
about  thirty-two  years  old  when  his  conversion  took  place. 
It  produced  an  instant  change  in  his  mode  of  life.  With 
his  mother,  his  brother,  his  son,  and  several  of  his  intimate 
friends,  he  retired  to  a  small  village  in  the  country,  and 
there,  all  together,  spent  several  months  in  beautiful,  pas- 
toral seclusion.  It  was  a  convent  in  miniature,  without 
the  absurdities  of  convent  life.  Thev  studied  and  con- 
versed  and  prayed  together,  each  giving  the  other  what  he 
lacked,  that  the  faith  of  the  whole  might  be  strengthened 
and  purified.  Augustine  was  foremost  here  in  all  the  exer- 
cises of  penitence.  He  changed  his  habits  of  life,  became 
tem Derate,  neat  and  fru2:al.  The  fire  of  his  devotion 
burned  steadily  and  brightly,  and  gave  rise  to  the  symbol 
which  painters  have  joined  to  him,  of  a  flaming  heart. 
That  eight  months'  retreat  is  the  poetical  passage  of 
Augustine's  life.  He  came  back  again  at  the  Easter  P'esti- 
val  a  matured  Christian  in  heart  and  faith.  All  things  had 
become  new  before  him  ;  and  he  received  as  a  little  child — 
though  his  manly  son  stood  by  his  side  to  share  the  holy 
water  —  the  seal  of  baptism  from  the  hands  of  Ambrose. 
His  parting  from  his  spiritual  father  to  go  back  to  his 
native  land,  reminds  us  of  the  scene  of  Elijah  and  Elisha. 
'i'hey  never  met  again,  but  the  younger  prophet  took  with 
him  the  mantle  of  the  elder,  and  wore  it  as  an  angel-gift. 


AUGUSTINE.  89 


One  more  affecting  passage  remained  to  Augustine 
before  he  should  enter  upon  the  new  work  of  his  life. 
The  mother  who  had  watched  and  prayed,  and  waited  for 
her  desire  and  her  joy  to  be  full,  could  now  say,  like  aged 
Simeon,  "Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace,  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation."  He  has 
left  us  a  beautiful  picture  of  their  closing  interview.  They 
talked  about  God  and  the  spirit-world,  about  the  com- 
munion of  saints,  about  the  joy  of  believing,  and  the  son 
felt  what  he  never  felt  before,  that  he  could  be  calm  even 
in  the  thought  of  losing  his  mother's  earthly  life,  from  the 
feeling  that  she  would  stay  as  an  angel  by  his  side.  His 
heart  felt  desolate,  indeed,  when  he  closed  her  eyes  and 
committed  her  body  to  the  earth  in  the  land  of  strangers. 
But,  as  he  woke  the  next  morning,  he  seemed  to  hear  a 
choir  of  angels  chanting  the  beautiful  morning  hymn  of 
Ambrose,  which  thus  begins  : 

"  Maker  of  all,  the  Lord, 

And  Ruler  of  the  height, 
Who,  robing  day  in  light,  has  poured 

Soft  slumbers  o'er  the  night ; 
That  to  our  limbs  the  power 

Of  Toil  may  be  renewed, 
And  hearts  be  raised  that  break  and  cower, 

And  sorrows  be  subdued;  "  — 

and  his  own  sorrow  vanished  at  the  sound,  and  he  girded 
himself  up  with  new  zeal  for  his  future  Christian  work. 

In  the  midst  of  the  columns  and  fragments  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Ostia,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber,  may  be 
found  to  this  day  a  chapel,  which  tradition  points  out  as 
the  spot  where  the  last  conversation  with  Monica  was 
held,  and  whence  her  spirit  took  its  upward  flight.  How 
much  holier  the  association  with  this  spot  than  with  any 
mere  burial  place  of  mortal  relics  !  The  dust  of  his  mother 
was  of  little  value  to  him  who  should  become  a  teacher 
and  a  prophet  unto  men.  But  the  memory  of  those  part- 
ing words,  years  after  the  form  had  mouldered  away, 
restored  the  sinking  soul  of  the  weary  teacher,  and  made 
him  confident  and  hopeful. 

1  have  dwelt  thus  long  upon  the  first  portion  of  Angus- 


90  AUGUSTINE. 


tine's  life,  because  it  has  a  peculiar  interest  as  showing 
the  influences  under  which  his  great  and  vigorous  mind 
was  formed.  We  may  pass  more  rapidly  over  the  remain- 
ing portion,  though  it  is  crowded  with  marvels  of  power,  of 
labor,  and  of  endurance.  A  hasty  glance  at  its  events 
will  lead  us  to  speak  of  its  various  forms  of  activity,  its 
great  results,  and  finally  of  the  character  and  spirit  of  the 
saint.  It  is  impossible  in  a  trifling  sketch  to  do  justice  to 
that  which  volumes  have  failed  to  do.  The  part  of  his 
life  that  we  have  thus  far  passed  over  makes  hardly  one- 
tenth  of  the  work  of  his  chief  biographer. 

Augustine  had  nearly  reached  the  middle  age  of  life 
when  he  returned  to  his  native  land.  He  had  left  it  a 
restless  skeptic,  driv^en  by  worldly  ambition,  a  slave  to  his 
lusts,  and  with  no  high  or  noble  aim,  —  feeling  the  hollow- 
ness  of  the  praise  with  which  his  name  was  spoken,  but 
not  knowing  where  to  find  any  better.  He  came  back  a 
serious,  calm,  and  sober  Christain,  resolved  henceforth  to 
devote  his  talents,  his  zeal,  his  strength,  to  the  spiritual 
teaching  of  his  brethren  and  to  the  salvation  of  his  soul. 
It  was  his  desire  to  keep  a  retired  life,  and  to  assume  no 
honor  or  office  in  the  public  gift.  The  death  of  his  son 
soon  freed  him  from  all  earthly  ties.  And  he  was  like  to 
have  become  a  hermit  thereupon.  But  his  application  to 
the  study  of  the  scriptures  had  made  him  so  skillful  in 
reading  their  meaning,  that  his  fame  was  widely  proclaimed, 
and  he  was  often  invited  by  the  pious  to  come  and  talk 
with  them  about  spiritual  things.  The  nunnery  which  he 
founded,  imitating  in  this  St.  Jerome  of  Bethlehem,  also 
made  his  name  dear  to  the  Christians,  and  they  began  in 
many  places  to  desire  him  for  their  bishop.  One  day  he 
was  sent  for  by  a  dying  person  at  Hippo,  a  city  some 
hundred  miles  from  Carthas^e,  to  converse  with  him  on  the 
state  of  his  soul.  His  words  here  were  so  full  of  wisdom 
and  comfort,  that,  as  he  stood  in  the  church,  the  people 
flocked  round  him  and  demanded  with  loud  cries  that  the 
bishop  should  at  once  ordain  him  to  be  a  priest.  The 
urgencies  of  the  people  were  so  lively  and  violent  that  he 
could  not  resist ;  and,  overcoming  his  scruples,  he  con- 
sented to  devote  those  powers  of  rhetoric  which  he  had 
before  used  for  personal  ambition,  now  to  the  service  of 
God. 


AUGUSTINE,  91 


The  bishop  of  the  diocese,  Valerius,  who  was  an  old 
man,  at  once  appointed  Augustine  to  preach  in  his  own 
church.  And  from  that  time  the  episcopal  church  became 
a  cathedral  in  the  truest  sense.  For  seven  years  the  new 
priest  stood  there,  day  by  day,  and  expounded  the  word  of 
life  to  the  waiting  crowds.  The  enthusiasm  with  which 
his  preaching  was  greeted  was  paralleled  only  by  that 
which  in  another  part  of  the  empire,  almost  at  the  same 
time,  waited  upon  John  Chrysostom,  the  orator  of  the 
ancient  Church.  It  grew  continually  stronger  and  stronger, 
till  at  last  not  alone  the  failing  health  of  the  old  bishop, 
but  the  unanimous  voice  of  the  people  demanded  that 
Au2:ustine  should  be  secured  to  them  in  the  hio:hest  seat  of 
dignity  and  authority.  In  the  forty-second  year  of  his  age 
he  became  the  assistant  bishop  of  Hippo,  soon,  by  the 
death. of  his  old  friend,  the  sole  occupant  of  the  seat, — 
and  soon,  too,  by  the  vigor  of  his  pen,  the  watchfulness  of 
his  faith,  and  the  profoundness  of  his  wisdom,  the  virtual 
primate  of  the  Christian  world.  Men  looked  henceforth 
to  him  for  spiritual  guidance,  though  they  might  refer  to 
the  Pope  for  temporal  council.  And  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life  he  wielded  an  authoritv  in  the  world  of  thou2:ht 
and  doctrine  unprecedented  and  unparalleled  in  the  ancient 
Church.  Hippo  became  henceforward  to  the  Western 
Church  what  Alexandria  had  been  to  the  Eastern.  There 
was  tried  the  truth  of  all  speculations.  There  the  heresies 
were  judged,  and  there  the  standard  of  sound  faith  seemed 
to  be  promulgated.  For  thirty-five  years  Hippo  remained 
the  metropolis  of  faith  to  the  world.  The  wise  from  the 
East  and  the  West  sent  up  thither  to  learn  how  to  teach, 
and  what  to  teach,  and  the  opinion  of  the  thinker  there 
became  the  action  of  the  whole  Christian  Church. 

The  African  Church,  when  Augustine  became  a  bishop, 
was  in  the  midst  of  its  time  of  severest  trial.  The  Dona- 
tist  schism  had  robbed  it  of  more  than  half  of  its  most 
important  churches,  and  four  hundred  bishops  claimed  and 
administered  authoritv  in  that  heretical  name.  Often 
severe  and  terrible  conflicts  took  place,  and  blood  was 
shed  by  brethren  claiming  the  common  heritage  of  Chris- 
tian love.  Augustine  set  himself  as  his  first  great  work  of 
Episcopal    duty   to    crush    and    extinguish    this   powerful 


9-  AUGUSTINE. 


schism.  It  was  a  bold  project,  but  he  had  learned  from 
the  beginning  to  labor  and  to  wait.  It  was  not  by  reckless 
denunciation  or  by  stirring  up  the  spirit  of  strife  that  he 
sought  to  accomplish,  but  rather  in  the  gentler  way  of 
argument  and  suffrage.  His  pen  was  busy  in  refuting  their 
claims,  his  tongue  was  eloquent  to  persuade  them  into 
duty.  Knowing,  too,  that  a  house  divided  against  itself 
cannot  stand,  he  showed  them  that  thev  had  no  internal 
agreement  or  bond  of  union.  He  accomplished  in  a  little 
while  what  the  persecution  of  more  than  a  century  had 
failed  to  do.  At  the  great  council  at  Carthage,  in  tl\e 
year  411,  at  which  nearly  three  hundred  bishops  of  either 
party,  Catholic  and  Donatists,  were  present,  —  the  doctrine 
of  the  latter,  through  the  influence  of  Augustine,  was 
formallv  condemned,  —  and  the  sect  mifrht  have  been  ex- 
tinguished,  but  for  that  persecution,  which  followed  it. 
This  was  against  the  desire  of  Augustine,  who  loved  not  to 
include  pains  and  penalties  in  his  condemnation  of  opin- 
ions. This  Donatist  controversy,  however,  was  the  least 
of  those  three  in  which  the  great  powers  of  the  bishop  were 
called  forth,  —  and  his  voluminous  works  against  the  Don- 
atists have  for  us  little  value,  except  as  showing  the  spirit 
of  the  man. 

The  controversy  which  he  held  with  his  old  friends,  the 
Manicheans,  was  one  which  taxed  more  of  his  intellectual 
strength.  This  involved  the  discussion  of  high  philosophi- 
cal questions,  and  entered,  too,  into  the  domain  of  science. 
But  his  warfare  with  the  Pelagian  heresy  is  that  which  has 
kept  his  controversial  fame  forever  in  the  Church.  An 
outline  of  this  heresy  I  gave  in  a  previous  lecture.  Its 
authors  were  Pelagius  and  Celestius,  —  the  one  a  British, 
and  the  other  an  Irish  monk, — the  one  full  of  English 
shrewdness,  the  other  full  of  Irish  fire.  The  sentiments 
of  the  first  were  so  skillfully  softened  that  their  diffusion 
became  easy,  while  the  boldness  of  the  last  soon  procured 
his  condemnation  as  a  heretic.  Pelagius'  views  on  the  doc- 
trine of  the  natural  condition  of  man  and  the  nature  of 
sin  were  fundamentally  opposite  to  the  received  Catholic 
view.  He  held  that  man  by  nature  was  pure  and  free, — 
that  Adam's  sin  extended  no  farther  than  himself, — that 
each  child  born  into  the  world  was  as  innocent  as  the  first 


AUGUSTINE.  93 


of  men,  —  that  all  penal  transgression  was  voluntary, — 
and  that  future  reward  would  be  measured  by  human 
merit,  and  not  bv  the  arbitrary  grace  of  God.  He  main- 
tained,  in  the  process  of  salvation,  that  the  free-choice  of 
man,  and  not  the  Special  Spirit  of  God,  was  the  first  im- 
pulse,—  and  that  every  man  had  the  materials  in  his  own 
condition  and  powers  for  coming  to  the  peace  of  the  Chris- 
tian and  the  love  of  God,  without  any  extraordinary  action 
of  grace.  He  did  not  intend  in  this  to  degrade  God  or 
his  work,  but  rather  to  exalt  man,  made  in  the  image  of 
God.  Perhaps  the  early  associations  of  Pelagius  had  led 
him  to  this  view.  His  Christian  name,  which  was  taken, 
according  to  the  ancient  custom,  from  the  peculiarity  of 
his  residence,  sijrnifies  a  dweller  bv  the  sea.  And  it  is 
there  always  that  the  dignity  and  glory  of  human  nature 
are  most  felt  and  learned.  There  is  somethins;  in  the 
free,  rolling  ocean  so  self-sustaining,  so  majestic,  that  it 
seems  to  speak  to  the  soul  of  a  kindred  self-sustaining 
power.  The  Pelagius  of  the  modern  Church,  our  own 
Channing,  confessed  that  his  summer  walks  on  the  sound- 
ing shore  of  the  beach  at  Newport,  gave  him  the  inspira- 
tion and  the  faith  to  speak  to  the  Church  of  the  dignity  of 
man. 

But  the  views  of  Pelagius  were  better  suited  to  the  dis- 
tant tranquil  shores  of  the  lonely  British  Isle,  than  to  the 
luxurious  and  sinful  haunts  of  the  civilized  world.  The 
Catholic  doctrine  that  man  was  born  with  the  curse  of 
Adam  on  his  soul,  had  been  wrought  out,  not  by  Oriental 
speculation  or  Biblical  reading  merely,  but  by  the  long 
experience  of  manifold  iniquities,  great  and  small.  The 
w'ickedness  and  woe  of  human  life  were  more  conspicuous 
in  Italy  and  Greece  and  Africa  than  its  native  dignity ; 
and  the  rumor  even  of  a  doctrine  so  flattering  to  the 
pride  of  the  sinful  heart,  and  so  fatal  in  reconciling  men 
to  corruption,  roused  up  the  watchful  guardians  of  the 
Church.  From  the  East  came  the  wrathful  voice  of 
Jerome  in  indignant  protest ;  from  Rome  Papal  edicts  ful- 
minated anathemas  against  its  daring  supporters ;  and 
from  Hippo,  in  Africa,  came  the  word  of  entreaty,  remon- 
strance and  refutation. 

Augustine  had  lon^-  been  forced  as  a  convert  from  the 


94  AUGUSTINE. 


Manicheans,  who  were  the  successors  of  the  Stoics  in 
their  belief  of  an  omnipotent  destiny,  and  the  precursors 
of  Calvin,  Priestley  and  Edwards  in  their  doctrine  of 
necessity,  and  human  inability,  to  assert  manfully  the  free- 
7vill  of  man.  He  had  made  this  the  central  truth  of  his 
theological  system.  And  he  now  brought  it  into  a  new 
and  peculiar  use,  —  not  logically  consistent,  but  good  for 
an  antagonist  principle  of  the  saving  grace  of  God. 
Augustine  maintained  that  all  sin  came  from  the  original 
free-will  of  man;  that  man,  and  not  God,  was  the  author 
of  evil ;  and  that  the  will  of  Adam  was  truly  the  will  of 
his  race.  He  held  that  so  obstinately  independent  was 
this  moral  determination  of  the  human  race,  that  only  a 
divine  leading  could  draw  it  back  again  to  virtue.  But 
verv  soon  he  found  that  the  ardor  of  his  reasoning  drew 


him  into  a  denial  of  what  had  so  long  been  his  favorite 
view.  He  ended  the  controversy  a  predestinarian  in  his 
dogma,  and  from  him  now  men  gather  the  most  striking 
hints  in  the  ancient  Church  of  election,  decrees,  and  the 
whole  catalogue  of  doctrines  which  Calvin  afterwards 
reduced  to  system.  He  could  really  sustain  the  theory  of 
original  sin  on  no  other  ground.  For  if  man  be  born  into 
the  world  with  positive  depravity,  for  which  he  shall  here- 
after be  punished,  then  is  there  transgression  which  is 
independent  of  his  own  choice.  The  manner  of  Augus- 
tine's conversion  might  have  impressed  his  heart  more 
sensibly  with  the  efficacy  and  need  of  God's  supernatural 
grace.  But  it  was  probably  the  deep-seated  conviction 
that  the  theory  of  human  purity  would  not  explain  the 
fact  of  such  wide  and  growing  corruption,  which  made  his 
doctrine  more  acceptable  than  that  of  Pelagius.  A  falling 
world  could  not  behold  that  bright  view,  which  free  and 
holy  Nature  inspires.  And  Scripture,  read  in  its  profligate 
cities,  would  take  a  darker  impression  of  life  than  is 
found  in  the  view  of  the  foreign  heretic.  Augustine, 
silenced  by  his  relations  of  personal  experience,  and  by 
his  ingenious  logic,  the  prophetic  wisdom  of  his  foe. 
When  Pelagius  was  condemned  by  successive  councils,  the 
doctrine  of  native  depravity  became  fixed  in  the  Church. 
But  even  his  mighty  authority  was  not  able  to  restrain  the 
pure  and  the  holy  from  feeling  that  God  had  made  them 


AUGUSTINE.  95 


happy  by  his  original  grace  before  even  any  special  work 
of  redemption  was  done.  The  penitent  sinner  that  had 
passed  through  an  experience  such  as  his,  might  come  to 
feel  that  it  was  a  miraculous  change  from  perfect  darkness 
to  perfect  light.  But  the  heart  of  his  mother  was  true  to  a 
higher  instinct,  when  she  trusted,  even  in  the  midst  of 
his  voluntary  transgressions,  in  that  native  goodness 
and  piety  which  she  knew  was  waiting  in  his  heart  to  be 
called  forth.  She  knew  when  she  prayed  that  his  heart 
was  not  wholly  evil.  The  mother's  instinct  denies  forever 
the  doctrine  of  native  sin.  There  is  the  dearest  earthly 
home  of  the  heresy.  x\mong  the  angels  on  high  the  doc- 
trine never  enters. 

But  we  turn  from  the  controversies  of  Aus^ustine  to 
speak  of  his  two  great  works,  by  which  his  fame  has  been 
made  immortal,  —  which  the  heretic  as  well  as  the  Catho- 
lic, the  infidel  not  less  than  the  Christian,  can  read  with 
admiration,  the  "Confessions,"  and  the  "City  of  God."  It 
is  upon  these  that  his  reputation  as  an  author  mainly  rests. 
In  size  they  together  form  but  an  insignificant  fragment, 
compared  with  the  rest  of  his  works.  But  they  concen- 
trate the  beauty,  the  eloquence,  the  pathos,  and  the  power 
of  all  the  rest.  The  Confessions  were  written  at  the  age 
of  forty-three,  shortly  after  he  became  bishop.  They  are  a 
faithful  portraiture  of  his  life  up  to  this  period,  —  not  of 
his  earthly  life  merely  or  chiefly,  but  of  his  spiritual  life 
rnuch  more,  the  truest  life  of  every  man.  They  are  not 
like  most  autobiographies  or  narratives  for  other  men  to 
read,  but  rather  a  conversation  with  God  about  past  ex- 
periences, thought  and  emotions.  They  are  not  a  confes- 
sion before  men,  but  before  God.  They  are  a  spiritual 
analysis  of  his  life  in  the  Past,  with  its  promise  for  the 
future.  They  mention  circumstances  only  as  these  show  the 
growth  and  the  working  of  character  and  faith.  And  it  is 
hard,  therefore,  for  one  who  takes  them  up,  as  he  would 
the  story  of  an  ordinary  life,  to  get  interested  in  them  at 
once.  They  are  a  mixture  of  penitence,  praise,  and  prayer. 
They  show  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  a  soul  is  brought ' 
which  has  renounced  self,  and  submitted  wholly  to  God. 
The  details  would  appear  to  us  needlessly  revolting  and 
minute,  were  we  to  think  of    them  as  set  down  for  the 


96  AUGUiiTINE. 


interest  of  men, —  but  they  become  sincere  and  just,  when 
they  are  seen  to  point  towards  God  and  his  mercy.  You 
can  frame  from  the  Confessions  of  Augustine  no  good 
account  of  his  time  ;  and  when  you  have  finished  reading 
them,  you  seem  to  have  lost  your  idea  of  when  and  where 
their  subject  lived ;  the  elements  of  time  and  place  seem 
to  have  been  almost  annihilated.  You  are  rather  brought 
into  the  presence  of  an  intense  spiritual  consciousness,  — 
and  made  to  see  the  process  of  a  soul  in  flinging  itself 
clear  of  mortal  incumbrances,  and  gaining  the  place  of 
pure  spirit  before  God.  One  by  one,  the  ties  to  earth  seem 
to  be  unbound,  and  as  you  close  the  book,  you  seem  to 
have  been  absorbed  in  a  dream  of  heaven.  In  this  modern 
day,  more  than  one  have  attempted  to  imitate  the  method 
of  the  African  saint.  Reinhard,  the  German  preacher; 
Rousseau,  the  French  infidel,  and  inferior  writers,  not  a 
few,  have  laid  before  the  world  their  private  experience  in 
the  form  of  Confessions.  But  you  are  struck  at  once  with 
the  notable  difference  between  the  directmi  of  their  works 
and  the  work  of  Augustine.  They  have  the  amusement 
or  the  admiration  of  men  in  view.  He  had  only  the  ap- 
probation of  God.  They  transport  you  into  the  scenes 
and  times  in  which  thev  spoke  and  acted.  He  brings  him- 
self home  rather  to  your  time  as  a  spiritual  brother. 

One  writer  beautifully  compares  his  book  to  the  nebulae 
in  the  heavens  above  us,  in  which  no  single  star  in  its  rela- 
tion to  other  stars  is  actually  defined,  but  in  the  dim  light 
of  which  are  gathered  the  forms  of  many  unknown  worlds. 
The  Confessions  of  Rousseau  leave  upon  you  the  clear 
and  distinct  consciousness  of  a  selfish,  worldly,  and  bitter 
spirit.  You  feel  that  the  trust  of  this  man  was  in  earthly 
joys,  and  that  even  his  pretence  of  humility  was  only  a 
morbid  craving  for  sympathy  and  admiration.  He  seems 
to  be  proud  and  desirous  of  applause  even  in  the  relation 
of  his  vices.  The  Confessions  of  Augustine,  on  the  con- 
trar}^  lift  you  up  to  the  mystical  table-land  of  the  soul,  — 
appeal  to  your  own  sense  of  error,  and  linger  in  your 
memory  as  some  vision  of  the  spirit  world.  The  work 
may  be  called,  in  fact,  an  epitomized  history  of  the  human 
soul.  It  is  a  study  for  the  philosopher,  —  a  manual  for 
the  devotee.     It  has  been  analyzed  in  the  schools, — and 


AUGUSTINE.  97 


has  for  ages  been  the  chosen  companion  for  the  closet. 
Age  has  invested  it  with  no  savor  of  antiquity,  it  is  a  voice 
to  us  from  that  eternal  world  which  never  grows  old.  It 
cannot  be  read  in  everv  state  of  mind.  There  is  nothing: 
of  historical  or  romantic  attraction  about  it.  To  com- 
mon sense  it  is  a  dreaming  rhapsody.  But  the  spiritual 
sense  will  find  in  it  the  soaring  of  spiritual  desire  up 
to  its  native  seat  on  high. 

The  great  work  of  Augustine  was  "The  City  of  God." 
For  eighteen  years  he  was  occupied  on  this,  the  majestic 
prose  epic  of  Christian  antiquity.  It  was  first  conceived 
when  the  shock  of  the  barbarian  devastation  of  Rome  had 
reached  his  ears.  It  is  like  the  great  epics  of  Homer,  a 
funeral  oration  for  the  Past,  a  Christian  prophecy  for  the 
Future.  It  bids  adieu  to  the  Pagan  world  ;  it  opens  the 
reign  of  the  Christian  state.  It  is  impossible  here  to  give 
even  an  analysis  of  so  great  a  work,  extending  through 
twenty-two  books,  and  crowded  with  so  much  learning. 
By  illustrations,  by  arguments,  by  analogies  of  every  kind, 
he  shows  how  weak  and  worthless  is  any  faith  which  is  not 
pervaded  by  the  central  idea  of  a  spiritual  God.  He  makes 
the  whole  course  of  former  falsehood,  folly,  and  supersti- 
tion, a  witness  to  the  divine  truth.  It  is  one  of  those 
books  of  which  we  may  say,  as  was  said  of  Varro,  the 
author  of  "  Antiquities  of  Rome,"  that  it  shows  so  much 
reading,  that  we  wonder  how  he  had  leisure  to  write  it. 
Read  in  the  light  of  modern  history,  it  seems  one  long 
prophecy  of  the  triumphs  of  the  Cross.  It  unfolds  the 
doctrine  of  Christian  progress,  shows  the  glories  of  a  true 
Christian  civilization,  the  blessings  of  peace  and  its  arts, — 
and  the  future  triumph  of  the  soul  of  man  over  its 
material  clogs.  He  shows  that  all  true  influence  for  good 
comes  from  virtue  in  the  heart,  that  character  is  greater 
than  condition,  and  that  man  becomes  noble  by  what  he 
is,  and  not  by  what  is  around  him.  "The  City  of  God" 
reminds  us  of  that  ancient  custom  of  Egypt,  by  which 
they  judged  their  kings  before  proceeding  to  bury  them.  It 
stands  as  a  solemn  judge  of  the  gods  of  the  former  world 
and  the  kings  of  human  thought ;  shows  to  the  one  their 
weakness  in  upholding  the  men  who  adored  them,  to  the 
other  their  impatience  in  seeking  to  soar  to  the  eternal 
7 


98  AUGUSTINE 


truth  on  the  whio^s  of  genius  alone,  —  and  declares  their 
final  sentence.  Then  it  sings  their  funeral  song  and  sits 
on  their  sepulchre,  sealed  with  its  own  powerful  hand. 

It  is  a  spiritual  paradise  which  the  "  City  of  God " 
spreads  out  before  men,  —  no  sensual  Eden, — but  rather 
a  kingdom  of  ideas  and  sacred  sentiments,  of  righteous- 
ness, temperance,  peace,  and  freedom.  It  is  striking  to 
us  now,  who  live  in  an  age  when  the  question  of  human 
liberty  is  the  absorbing  topic  of  thought,  to  read  the  noble 
testimony  borne  by  the  most  eminent  Christian  teacher  in 
an  age  of  comparative  darkness.  Augustine  denounces 
slavery  as  belonging  to  a  heathen  State.  It  has  to  him  no 
justification  in  the  laws  of  Christian  grace ;  it  is  the  sad 
penalty  of  human  degeneracy,  but  justified  by  no  com- 
mand of  God.  For  God  has  said :  "  Let  man  have 
dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  the  birds  of  the  air,  and 
the  beasts  of  the  earth,"  —  but  he  has  nowhere  said,  "Let 
man  have  dominion  over  his  brother  man."  Every  prog- 
ress towards  virtue  will  be  a  progress  towards  freedom; 
and  as  the  truths  of  the  Gospel  are  developed  before  men, 
so  will  liberty  be  vindicated  and  established.  But  a  whole 
lecture  would  be  needed  to  give  you  an  idea  of  this 
wonderful  work  of  Augustine,  so  fertile  in  fancies,  so  full  of 
learning,  so  rich  in  suggestion,  so  oracular  in  its  utterances 
of  the  profoundest  truths,  so  broad  in  its  faith,  so  far-reach- 
ing in  its  spiritual  vision,  —  the  picture  of  a  Christian 
republic,  the  ideal  of  heaven  made  actual  among  men. 
As  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  to  the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  so 
are  the  "Confessions"  of  Augustine  to  the  "  City  of  God." 
The  first  give  you  the  inward  life  and  aspiration  of  the 
man ;  the  last  is  his  whole  majestic  work.  The  Emperor 
Charlemagne  declared  it  the  greatest  effort  of  human 
genius. 

We  cannot  give  even  the  titles  of  the  other  works  of 
Augustine,  of  the  thousands  of  sermons,  preaching,  as  he 
did,  twice  every  day  for  years,  of  the  innumerable  letters 
and  tracts  on  every  variety  of  topic,  addressed  to  every 
quarter  of  the  world.  We  should  love  to  linger  over  the 
controversy  with  Jerome  about  the  sincerity  of  Paul  in  his 
anti-Jewish  speeches,  —  not  for  the  matter  thereof,  so  much 
as  showing  the  striking  contrasts  between  the  tempers  of 


AUGUSTINE,  99 


these  two  great  men, — how  sweetly  the  mild  firmness  of 
Augustine  conquered  the  hot  sensitiveness  of  the  Monk  of 
Bethlehem.  As  the  proof  of  his  poetical  abilities,  which 
are  shown  in  some  hymns  of  extraordinary  length,  we 
quote  only  his  hymn,  entitled  "The  Antidote  for  Sin." 
The  translation  is  nearly  literal: 

Tyrant !     Shall  thy  threatenings  harm  me  ? 

Every  grief  and  every  pain, 
Every  wile  thou  weavest  to  charm  me, 

All  against  my  love  are  vain. 
This  can  bid  me  brave  the  terror, 

This  to  die,  my  soul  can  nerve, 
Better  death,  than  prosperous  error, 

Mightier  is  the  power  of  love. 

Bring  the  rack,  the  scourge,  the  fagot, 

Lift  on  high  the  fatal  Cross, 
Calm  before  these  foes  so  haggard, 

Still  my  love  shall  fear  no  loss. 
This  can  turn  aside  the  terror. 

This  to  weakness  shall  not  move. 
Better  death  than  shameful  error, 

Mightier  is  the  power  of  love. 

When  with  love  my  heart  is  burning, 

Heaviest  woes  seem  all  too  bright. 
Hasty  death,  a  quick  returning 

Home  from  darkness  into  light. 
Then  life's  changes  bring  no  terror, 

Trials  turn  my  soul  above. 
Better  death  than  wearying  error. 

Holier  is  the  joy  of  love. 

But  in  our  admiration  for  the  genius  and  wisdom  of 
Augustine,  which,  in  a  life  of  signal  activity,  seemed  to 
gain  all  the  fruits  of  the  most  secret  contemplation,  in  our 
amazement  at  finding  that  this  thinker  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury anticipated  not  only  the  theological  thought  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  but  the  practical  wisdom  of  this  nine- 
teenth as  well,  in  our  wonder  at  this  ancient  writer 
defending  the  modern  doctrine  of  progress,  we  almost 
overlook  and  forget  the  actual  life  and  character  of  the 
man.  His  intellectual  greatness  seems  even  to  eclipse  his 
serene  and  beautiful  holiness  of  life  and  walk.  His  was 
one  of  those  finelv-balanced  characters,  the  excesses  of 
which  fall  harmlessly.     He  was  severe  in  self-scrutiny,  but 


loo  AUGUST]  NE. 


charitable  in  his  judo^ment  of  others.  In  his  own  Hfe  his 
mistakes  were  magnified  to  sins ;  in  the  lives  of  his  flock, 
often  his  fatherly  kindness  would  soften  seeming  sins  to 
pardonable  errors.  He  was  a  theologian  without  being  a 
dogmatist,  he  was  a  bishop  without  being  a  lord.  Rigid 
in  his  own  private  morality,  he  insisted  far  less  than  the 
Christian  of  his  time  on  the  need  of  an  ascetic  life  for 
others.  He  was  a  foe  to  suicide  in  any  form,  whether  in 
the  sudden  act,  or  in  the  wearing  mortification  of  the  flesh. 
He  was  a  sincere  friend  and  an  open  foe,  —  accusing  him- 
self often  without  cause,  but  always  excusing  others. 
From  his  own  apparent  harshness,  he  was  the  severest 
sufferer.  He  practiced  upon  and  proved  the  Scripture 
precept,  that  a  soft  answer  turneth  wrath  away.  Busy  in 
the  affairs  of  the  world,  he  seemed  above  the  world  while 
he  lived  in  it.  His  home  was  always  a  house  of  prayer. 
There  were  brother  hermits  that  dwelt  there,  but  those  who 
visited  it  seemed  rather  to  see  ans^els  than  hermits.  In- 
deed,  Augustine  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  usually 
conceived  of  as  accompanied  by  some  good  spirit.  I  have, 
from  Murillo,  an  engraving  of  him,  which  represents  him 
as  in  his  pontifical  robes  and  insignia,  bending  to  an 
angel,  in  the  form  of  a  little  child  with  a  shell  in  its  hand, 
who  says :  "  I  could  as  soon  empty  the  ocean  with  my 
shell  as  you  explain  the  mystery  of  one  God  in  three 
persons." 

Augustine  had  in  his  own  age  a  most  extraordinary  in- 
fluence. He  was  the  arbiter  of  disputes,  —  the  idol  of  all 
the  faithful.  He  lived  at  Hippo,  in  Africa,  like  Plato  in 
another  Athens.  But,  on  the  faith  of  all  succeeding  ages, 
he  has  had  an  influence  greater  than  that  of  anv  ancient 
Christian.  He  wrote  no  creed,  and  he  preached  and  coun- 
selled liberty  and  progress.  But  from  the  hints  and  the 
views,  which  lie  so  thickly  in  his  voluminous  works,  the 
sternest  creeds  of  the  Christian  world  have  been  wrought 
out.  The  Catholic  and  the  Calvinist  alike  claim  him  as 
the  father  of  their  several  systems.  The  great  Council  of 
Trent,  which  confirmed  the  Bible  of  Jerome  as  the  text 
for  Catholic  reading,  confirmed  also  the  dogmas  of  Augus- 
tine as  the  substance  of  Catholic  faith.  In  the  great 
controversy  between  the  Jesuits  and  the  Jansenists,  which 


AUGUSTINE,  loi 


agitated  for  half  a  century  the  Church  of  France,  Molina 
quoted  the  words,  and  Pascal  quoted  the  thoughts,  of  the 
Bishop  of  Hippo.  Our  own  Edwards  girded  the  loins  of 
his  mighty  mind  with  the  strong  proof- armor  of  his 
ancient  prototype.  The  visions  of  the  calm  and  passion- 
less Swedenborg  were  made  clearer  by  the  mystical 
raptures  of  the  "Confessions,"'  and  even  modern  Fourier- 
ism  will  translate  for  its  advantage  the  Utopian  beauties 
of  the  "  City  of  God."  Still  the  views  of  Pelagius  are  a 
heresy,  and  the  Churches  of  the  world  confess  in  word,  if 
they  do  not  in  spirit,  that  man,  according  to  the  sentiment 
of  Augustine,  is  born  a  sinner,  and  can  do  no  good  thing 
till  the  grace  of  God  shall  raise  him  again. 

The  last  great  work  of  St.  Augustine's  life  was  to  com- 
pose his  book  of  "  Retractions."  In  this,  with  a  truly 
Catholic  spirit,  he  reviews  all  his  former  writings,  taking 
back  all  that  is  doubtful,  extravagant,  or  offensive,  —  har- 
monizing discordant  opinions,  —  and  seeking  to  winnow 
out  the  essential  from  the  accumulated  stores,  or  chaff,  as 
he  deemed  them,  of  years.  He  had  reached  his  three- 
score years  and  ten,  and  felt  that,  though  his  eye  was  not 
dim  nor  his  faith  yet  failing,  still  the  natural  time  of  his 
departure  was  drawing  nigh.  He,  perhaps,  had  a  vision  of 
his  future  influence  in  thus  fixing  and  correcting  his  mani- 


fold labors.     It  was  his  last  testament  to  his  Church.     It 
was  his  permanent  legacy  to  the  world. 

In  the  year  430  of  the  Christian  era,  the  barbaric  inva- 
sion which  had  overrun  the  other  provinces  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  at  last  broke  upon  the  shores  of  Africa.  And 
there  its  course  was  one  of  fearful  and  utter  ravage.  The 
cities  fell  before  it,  —  the  churches  were  hopelessly  scat- 
tered, and  the  curse  that  Dido  had  uttered  a  thousand 
years  before,  was  at  last  fulfilled.  Carthage  and  its  regions 
of  beauty  became  desert  again.  For  some  time  Hippo 
escaped  the  fate  of  the  other  cities.  But  at  last,  as  the 
sails  of  Genseric  and  his  Vandals  appeared  on  the  waters 
of  the  bay,  the  bishop  was  struck  with  his  final  disease. 
Months  long  the  siege  of  the  city  continued.  But  long 
before  it  was  ended,  the  bodv  of  the  holv  comforter 
therein  had  been  laid  in  its  final  sleep.  So  quietly  had  he 
passed  away,  that  the  noise  of  his  death  was  hardly  heard 


I02  AUGUSTINE. 


in  the  terror  for  their  future.  But  when  they  came  to 
choose  another  bishop,  then  the  grief  of  the  people  became 
anguish  ;  they  forgot  their  danger,  and  broke  out  in  words 
of  bitter  despair. 

We  have  the  conversations  of  Augustine  in  his  final 
hour  faithfully  reported  by  his  friend  Possidius,  who 
watched  by  the  bedside.  They  are  full  of  faith  and 
beauty,  and  far  more  precious  than  those  sacred  relics  of 
which  such  peculiar  care  has  been  taken,  and  which  have 
received  in  these  latter  days  such  peculiar  honors.  We  are 
more  thankful  for  the  Providence  which  saved  the  works 
from  the  hands  of  Vandals,  than  that  which  spared  the 
bones  of  Augustine  from  desecration.  It  were  a  long  and 
needless  narrative  to  follow  the  translation  of  the  bones 
throucrh  manv  chances  and  miraculous  discoveries,  to  their 
honorable  place  in  the  cathedral  at  Pavia,  where  now  they 
mostly  rest,  —  working  miracles  to  the  credulous,  but  of 
small  value  to  the  traveller,  who  has  been  wearied  already 
with  the  multitude  of  such  holy  treasures.  Perhaps  some 
of  you  read  some  twenty-five  years  since,  in  the  papers,  of 
the  great  and  pompous  ceremony  of  the  restoration  of  the 
bones  of  St.  Augustine's  right  arm,  with  which  his  brilliant 
works  were  written,  to  the  church  at  Bona,  on  the  site  of 
ancient  Hippo.  It  was  a  remarkable  pageant,  and  must 
have  greatly  edified  the  turbaned  Arabs  of  Algiers.  A 
long  company  of  bishops  and  priests,  with  steam  frigates 
and  splendid  music,  must  have  seemed  a  singular  specta- 
cle as  they  bore  so  simple  a  relic.  But  if  the  soul  of 
Augustine  were  in  that  company,  it  must  have  rejoiced  to 
see  the  beautiful  region  of  ancient  faith  now  again, 
after  ages  of  darkness,  restored  to  its  former  hope,  and  the 
banner  of  the  Cross  again  unfurled  in  the  land  of  his  love, 
which  the  heathen  had  profaned. 

I  close  this  lecture,  already  too  long,  I  fear,  for  your 
patience,  though  a  most  inadequate  presentation  of  a  most 
inspiring  theme,  by  repeating  the  short  comparison  which 
the  French  biographer  has  drawn  between  the  works  of 
St.  Augustine  and  of  the  saintly  Thomas  k  Kempis,  a 
classic  of  the  closet.  He  says  :  "  This  voice,  coming  from 
ancient  Africa,  and  the  echo  of  which  is  so  magnificent 
and  wide,  instructs  and  moves  us  most  in  a  book  which 


AUGUSTINE.  T03 


does  not  bear  the  name  of  Augustine,  but  evidently  has 
sprung  from  the  influence  of  his  genius.  This  book  is  the 
"  Imitation  of  Christ."  The  profound  humility  which 
lifts  us  to  the  greatest  mysteries,  the  love  of  truth  which 
puts  every  created  thing  to  silence  and  will  listen  to  God 
alone,  —  the  method  of  reading  wisely  the  Sacred  Scrip- 
tures, the  little  confidence  to  be  placed  in  man,  —  the  self- 
denial  and  charity  for  all, — the  raptures  of  inward  peace 
and  a  conscience  pure,  the  joys  of  silence  and  solitude, — 
the  separation  from  visible  goods  and  patience  in  suffer- 
insrs.  —  the  soarins:  of  the  soul  towards  eternal  and  immu- 
table  beauty,  —  the  tender  and  sublime  communion  of  the 
soul  with  its  God,  —  all  that  is  gentle,  profound  and  com- 
forting in  this  work,  which  has  no  acknowledged  author,  as 
if  heaven  would  dispute  it  with  earth,  —  all  this  delicious 
study  of  the  hidden  Christian  springs,  is  filled  with  the 
soul  of  St.  Augustine.  When  I  read  the  "  Imitation  of 
Jesus  Christ,"  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  Augustine  who  is 
speaking."* 

*  When  Italy  was  invaded  by  Vandals  in  the  fifth  centun-,  the  bones 
of  Monica  were  transported  to  Rome.  In  the  great  medieval  church, 
which  bears  the  name  of  St.  Augustine,  near  the  Tiber,  not  only  does 
the  curious  visitor  go  to  admire  the  pictures  of  Guercino,  and  the 
masterly  fresco  of  Isaiah  by  Raphael,  but  to  gaze  with  amazement 
upon  the  thousand  of  votive  offerings  hung  before  and  around  the 
miracle-working  picture  of  the  Madonna,  from  the  hand  of  Luke,  the 
Apostolic  painter,  of  every  device  and  form.  But  I  remember  a 
deeper  emotion  in  standing  in  one  of  the  side  chapels,  before  the  urn 
of  verd  antique,  which  hold  the  relics  of  the  mother  of  Augustine. 

In  the  gallerv  of  the  Vatican,  there  is  a  little  oval  picture,  which 
represents  Monica  leading  her  son  to  school,  one  of  the  most  curious 
art  remains  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

One  of  the  greatest  pictures  of  that  gentle  son  of  genius  now  passed 
away,  Ary  Scheffer,  represents  Augustine  seated  by  Monica,  with 
his  hand  clasped  in  hers,  looking  up  with  her  to  heaven  with  an  expres- 
sion which  seems  to  sav,  "Help  thou  my  unbelief."  Well  might  the 
queen  of  France  count  it  good  fortune,  for  ;^iooo,  to  get  possession  of 
this  picture. 

In  the  Academy  at  Venice  is  another  striking  picture,  which  repre- 
sents Augustine,  with  his  mitre,  and  Monica,  with  her  veil,  supporting 
on  either  hand  the  enraptured  Mother  of  Christ. 


104  SYMBOLISM. 


III. 

SYMBOLISM    OF   THE    CHURCH. 

The  use  of  symbols  is  not  an  artificial,  but  a  natural 
use.  It  belongs  to  the  physical  condition  of  man,  and 
can  no  more  be  outgrown,  than  the  body  can  be  outgrown 
by  the  spirit,  or  the  senses  by  the  understanding.  It  is 
essential  to  this  complex  nature  of  ours,  and  is  the  avenue 
by  which  the  spiritual  world  is  reached.  Philosophically 
viewed,  all  things  around  us  are  symbols,  —  the  sun  and 
planets,  the  earth  and  its  fruits,  —  the  inarticulate  sounds 
of  Nature,  —  the  spoken  words  of  man,  —  all  are  signs  of 
ideas,  —  and  all  bridge  over  for  man  the  chasm  between 
matter  and  thought.  The  utter  absence  of  all  symbols 
implies  death.  He  who  shall  really  see  spiritual  realities, 
must  be  in  the  spiritual  world.  While  he  is  in  the 
natural  world,  he  can  only  see  them  through  their  signs. 
If  you  think  of  this  for  a  little  while,  you  will  see  that  it  is 
true.  But  in  the  matter  of  religion,  and  particularly  in  the 
order  of  worship,  it  has  always  been  an  admitted  fact. 
No  nation  has  yet  been  discovered  without  some  religious 
form,  some  sigfi  of  worship  or  faith.  The  most  rude  and 
the  most  cultivated  races  have  alike  found  emblems  need- 
ful for  their  prayer  and  praise.  The  Labrador  savage,  the 
Russian  serf,  and  the  Roman  cardinal,  are  alike  in  their 
necessity  of  using  these  emblems.  And  that  red  Indian, 
whom  the  French  traveller  saw  kneeling  alone  at  evening 
on  the  shore  of  a  Canadian  river,  with  arms  outstretched 
toward  the  setting  sun,  felt  the  need  of  symbolic  worship, 
as  he  who  kneels  beneath  the  studded  dome  of  St,  Peter, 
and  before  its  blazing  altar,  with  myriads  of  holy  men 
around  him. 

It  Is  a  common,  but  an  erroneous  idea,  that  the  need  of 
symbols  grows  less  as  men  become  wiser  and  more  spiritual 
in  their  tastes.     The  very  opposite  of  this  is  true.     Educa- 


SYMBOLISM.  T05 


tion  and  refinement  tend  to  increase  the  number,  and  to 
widen  the  province,  of  symbols.  These  are  fewest  and 
simplest  when  the  wants  of  man  are  few^est  and  simplest. 
Prayer  belongs  to  the  idea  of  God.  And  wherever  this 
idea  exists,  you  will  find  some  kind  of  prayer.  But  in 
savage  life,  the  principal  fact  is  death.  That  is  the  only 
thing  which  is  of  much  importance.  The  eating  and 
drinking,  the  daily  occupations  of  the  savage,  are  very 
much  like  those  of  the  brutes,  merelv  animal.  The  only 
thing  in  which  the  soti/  within  him  is  really  much  interested, 
is  the  death  of  his  enemies  and  his  friends.  And  conse- 
quently, you  find  that  the  symbols  of  savage  life  are  mostly 
those  connected  with  war  and  its  results.  They  smoke 
the  pipe  of  peace,  or  they  utter  the  scream  of  battle, 
and  bury  their  dead  with  peculiar  emblems.  Their  visible 
worship  seems  to  be  almost  wdiolly  connected  with  these. 
But  the  progress  from  savage  to  cultivated  life  brings  other 
events  and  occasions  into  equal  prominence.  Worship 
comes  gradually  to  be  associated  with  a  greater  variety  of 
scenes.  It  needs  many  signs,  because  it  has  so  many 
ideas  to  express  and  so  many  needs  to  meet.  Churches 
that  would  do  very  well  in  Lapland  would  not  do  in 
London,  even  for  the  poorest  class  of  the  people.  It  is  a 
principle  that  reason  shows  very  readih'  to  be  sound, 
that  genuine  culture  onlv  increases  the  need  of  sisrns, 
and  the  number,  too.  The  ignorant  boor  can  worship  only 
before  his  wooden  cross.  But  the  enlio^htened  Christian 
finds  all  God's  universe  a  temple,  and  everything  round 
him  a  sign  of  religion. 

We  are  not  to  infer,  however,  from  the  increase  of  sym- 
bols, either  in  number  or  beauty,  increased  purity  of  spirit 
or  sincerity  of  faith.  For  a  great  many  things  may  appear 
to  be  signs  that  are  not  really  so,  or  have  ceased  to  be 
what  they  were  once.  The  Cross  on  the  altar  is  pro- 
perly a  sign,  but  may,  and  does  very  often  become  an  idol. 
Those  emblems  that  represent  to  a  truly  religious  mind 
many  high  spiritual  conceptions,  may  still  be  retained  and 
prized  when  they  represent  nothing,  but  are  merely  exter- 
nal ornaments.  To  most,  no  doubt,  the  tablets  upon  the 
wall  in  churches  are  rich  in  reliirious  susrsrestions.  But  to 
some  they  are  only  gilt  letters  on  a  ground  of  stone-color, 


lo6  SYMBOLISM. 


and  arc  admired  not  for  their  meaning,  but  for  their  beauty 
of  outside  show.  Culture  demands  more  symbols  than 
ignorance.  But  the  increase  of  symbols  is  governed  by 
another  law  than  the  progress  of  culture.  And  a  luxuri- 
ous ritual  has  in  every  age  been  far  from  indicating  great 
spiritual  elevation  in  the  Church.  All  its  forms  have  been 
the  product  no  doubt  of  some  intention.  They  have  not 
been  brought  in  without  a  spiritual  purpose.  And  all  too 
no  doubt  have  religious  value  to  many  minds.  There  was 
nothing  so  absurd  in  the  Catholic  service  of  the  middle 
ages,  that  it  had  not  to  some  minds  a  really  religious  sig- 
nificance. But  a  vast  number  of  the  forms  that  have 
spiritual  uses  were  invented  for  purposes  of  deception,  or 
ecclesiastical  influence.  The  skill  of  cunning  priests  gave 
food  to  superstition,  while  it  made  the  ritual  or  the  Church 
more  splendid.  And  when  darkness  was  upon  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  the  civilized  world,  and  nations  were  break- 
ing up  in  terror,  then  the  gorgeousness  of  piety  became  all 
the  more  striking. 

The  first  Christian  communities,  those  of  the  Apostles, 
had  very  few  set  forms.  They  met  without  any  special 
appointment,  and  there  was  no  order  of  anything  to  be 
clone,  but  each  man  spake  as  he  was  moved  by  the  Holy 
Ghost.  The  time  was  every  day,  if  they  could  manage 
this,  the  place  was  any  secure  and  quiet  room,  usually  the 
house  of  some  of  the  more  prominent  Christians.  The 
meeting  was  for  mutual  instruction  and  conversation, 
they  talked  about  the  Saviour,  and  took  counsel  what  they 
should  do  to  spread  his  Gospel.  The  first  Church  meeting 
was  a  conference  meeting.  They  met  merely  in  a  free, 
friendly  way  to  talk  over  their  duties,  their  dangers,  and 
their  experience,  and  to  encourage  each  other  unto  perse- 
verance. They  sat  together  as  brethren  always  sat, 
remembering  the  injunction  of  their  departed  Master, 
though  in  no  formal  way. 

But  this  simplicity  of  worship  could  last  only  a  little 
while.  As  soon  as  converts  began  to  multiply,  private 
houses  were  not  large  enough  for  a  general  meeting,  and 
special  places  were  set  apart.  The  poverty  of  most  of  the 
converts  prevented  these  places  from  being  costly,  and 
persecution  in  many  parts  forced  them  to  keep  their  places 


SYIfBOLISM.  107 


of  worship  secluded.  And  when  therefore  the  fury  of  their 
enemies  would  not  permit  them  to  gather  in  some  special 
building,  they  were  wont  to  meet  in  caves  or  in  tombs, 
which  were  sometimes  built  very  large.  They  worshipped 
in  the  catacombs  at  Rome.  It  was  not  till  three  hundred 
years  after  Christ  that  the  Church  buildings  had  become 
at  all  conspicuous,  or  had  begun  to  rival  Pagan  temples 
either  in  beauty  or  convenience.  They  were  probably, 
except  in  solidity  and  in  natural  grace  of  structure,  edi- 
fices about  as  ornamental  as  the  Congregational  churches 
of  the  last  century  in  this  country,  of  which  you  will  find 
specimens  still  standing.  The  early  Christians  were  too 
much  harassed  and  tried  to  think  much  about  the  exter- 
nals of  their  sacred  house. 

So  too  as  their  numbers  multiplied,  and  men  of  various 
humble  trades  were  converted,  who  could  not  spare  their 
time  from  daily  labor,  there  grew  up  the  practice  of  meeting 
at  resfular  intervals.  The  Tews  had  alwavs  had  a  weekly 
Sabbath.  And  the  reverence  which  the  first  disciples  bore 
for  this  was  soon  transferred  to  the  first  day  of  the  week,  the 
day  on  which  our  Saviour  rose  from  the  dead.  Though 
the  Gentiles  had  not,  like  the  Jews,  a  Sabbatical  notion, 
still  thev  divided  their  weeks  into  seven  days,  and  fell 
readily  into  the  observances.  And  convenience  and  fitness, 
not  less  than  reverence,  dictated  the  observance  of  this 
day.  It  became  soon  the  regular  day  of  religious  meeting, 
and  was  uniformly  regarded.  And  soon  too  the  idea  of 
a  festival,  was  attached  to  it. 

Saturday,  the  old  Jewish  Sabbath,  became  a  fast  day, 
and  a  preparation  for  the  great  feast  of  Sunday.  Men 
could  not  be  other  than  iovful  on  the  day  of  their  Lord's 
resurrection.  Sunday  was  the  fixed  festival.  But  soon 
the  spirit  both  of  old  Roman  and  Jewish  antiquity  sug- 
gested more  imposing  festivals  at  greater  intervals.  The 
first  of  these  was  Easter  Sunday,  which  is  really  to  the 
year  what  Sunday  is  to  the  week,  its  sacred  beginning. 
Easter  is  the  Annual  Sunday.  You  know  that  the  Jews 
had  their  Sabbatical  year  as  well  as  their  weekly  Sab- 
bath. This  festival  came  into  vogue  sometime  before  the 
close  of  the  first  century.  Then  arose  Whitsunday,  the 
Christian  Pentecost,  which  came  seven  weeks  after  Easter. 


io8  SYMBOLISM. 


These  two,  with  the  Lord's  day,  continued  to  be  the  occa- 
sions of  ecclesiastical  meeting  and  rejoicing  up  to  the 
time  of  Constantine.  Christmas  did  not  come  into  the 
Church  till  a  later  period. 

There  was  in  the  beginning  no  set  form  of  worship. 
But  it  was  quite  natural  that  the  Sacred  Scriptures  should 
be  open  for  counsel,  and  that  some  brother,  more  gifted 
than  the  rest,  should  address  the  company.  By  a  very 
swift  and  obvious  process,  this  became  to  be  understood  as 
a  settled  thing.  And  the  meeting  of  the  early  Church  was 
conducted  by  reading  from  the  Scriptures,  by  an  exhorta- 
tion, from  some  one  or  more  of  the  brethren  (it  is  called 
by  St.  Paul  the  gift  of  prophecy),  —  by  audible  prayers, 
which  were  offered  as  the  spirit  moved,  and  by  very 
frequent  singing.  But  gradually  as  the  writings  of  the 
Christian  teachers  accumulated,  they  were  added  to  the 
sacred  records,  and  the  Canon  of  the  New  Testament  was 
made  bv  custom  comiDlete  before  it  was  fixed  bv  any 
special  statute.  For  convenience  sake,  the  old  Jewish 
method  of  dividing  the  Scriptures  into  lessons  was  resorted 
to,  and  then  finally  certain  passages  assigned  to  each 
particular  Sunday,  as  there  are  now  in  the  prayer-book.  A 
special  man  was  after  a  while  set  apart  to  take  charge  of 
the  reading,  chosen  probably  for  his  gifts  in  that  regard. 
For  the  case  then  was  as  common  as  now,  that  he  who 
could  preach  most  effectively  could  not  always  read  with 
most  eloquence  and  expression.  You  will  find  this  dis- 
tinction between  the  reader  and  the  rabbi,  or  priest,  still 
kept  in  the  Jewish  synagogues.  Very  different  men  are 
chosen  to  these  two  offices.  This  was  the  custom  at  the 
end  of  the  third  century.  Selections  from  the  canonical 
Scriptures  were  regularly  read  by  a  person  appointed  for 
that  purpose.  The  canonical  Scriptures  then  consisted  of 
the  books  which  we  have  in  our  collection,  and  no  other 
writings  were  allowed  to  be  read,  as  books  of  devotion,  in 
the  house  of  God. 

The  sermons  of  the  earlv  Church  were,  in  the  be^in- 
nmg,  mere  unpremeditated  exhortations  to  perseverance, 
patience  and  the  practice  of  all  virtues.  Their  end  was 
excitement  and  action,  and  not  instruction.  Thev  were 
probably  much  in  the  strain   of  the   practical  epistles  of 


SYMBOLISM.  109 


Paul.  From  this  they  passed  on  to  the  expositor}-  style, — 
and  became  explanations  of  the  various  lessons  that  were 
read  from  Scripture.  Of  this  kind  are  nearly  all  the 
homilies  of  the  earlier  fathers.  The  main  thing  was  to 
interpret  and  to  understand  the  Scripture.  This  kind  of 
preaching  had  reached  its  climax  at  the  time  of  Constan- 
tine.  The  proper  person  for  preaching  was  the  bishop,  if 
there  were  one  to  the  church.  It  was  as  much  part  of  his 
business  \o  preach  as  to  oversee  his  flock.  And  it  was  not 
expected  that  in  his  presence  any  priest  or  deacon  would 
take  that  duty.  Exceptions  to  this  were  afterwards 
allowed,  as  in  the  case  of  Ausfustine.  But  every  faithful 
bishop  was  expected  to  preach  every  Sunday  at  least  once, 
and  frequently  in  the  week.  Fast-days  and  feast-days  were 
days  for  preaching  too  as  well  as  Sunday. 

in  the  besfinninor  several  sermons  were  delivered  at  the 
same  service.  But  bv  and  bv,  as  certain  men  established 
a  peculiar  reputation  for  eloquence,  the  people  preferred 
to  hear  them  alone  all  the  time  that  was  before  allotted  to 
several  in  succession ;  and  the  two  hours  were  taken  up 
with  sinsrle  sermons  when  such  men  as  Basil  and  Chr^'sos- 
tom  entered  the  pulpit.  The  pulpits  however  of  the  hrst 
churches  was  a  simple  table  or  reading-desk,  and  the 
preacher  sat  behind  it,  and  expounded  as  he  read  the  pas- 
sage through. 

Sometimes,  however,  there  was  preaching  in  the  open 
air.  And  then  the  fork  of  a  tree,  the  top  of  a  column,  a 
sepulchral  monument,  or  a  precipice  on  the  hill  side,  were 
the  places  chosen  by  the  speaker.  Mars  Hill,  where  Paul 
preached  to  the  people  of  Athens,  is  a  wonderful  natural 
pulpit.  The  gentleman  who  addressed  you  last  evening 
told  me  that  he  never  knew  a  place  more  admirably 
adapted  for  a  most  effective  discourse. 

Preaching  in  the  open  air  was  not  much  liked  by  the 
bishops,  but  was  pursued  chiefly  by  the  monks,  especially 
by  the  heretical  and  mystic  monks,  who  were  in  their 
practices  to  the  Church  at  large  what  the  Methodists 
were  to  the  English  Church  of  the  last  centur}-.  The 
regular  preachers  commonly  used  the  hour-glass  to  tell 
them  when  their  time  was  over,  —  a  custom,  the  disuse  of 
which  in  this  day  is  somewhat  to  be  regretted. 


no  SYMBOLISM. 


The  exact  opposite  of  the  present  position  of  the 
speaker  and  audience  prevailed.  The  speaker  sat  and  the 
people  stood  all  around.  This  seems  to  have  been  the 
custom  from  the  earlier  times.  And  this  is  perhaps  one 
reason  why  the  hour-glass  was  so  important.  This  most 
uncomfortable  practice  probably  came  from  a  reverential 
feeling.  They  had  learned  from  the  Jews  to  stand  during 
the  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  and  they  would  think  it 
equally  becoming  to  stand  during  the  interpretation  thereof. 
There  were  Scripture  precedents  for  this  position  too. 
Was  not  Jesus  found  sitting  in  the  temple,  with  the  doctors 
standing  around  him  ?  Did  he  not  sit  when  from  the  ship 
he  taught  the  people  standing  on  the  shore  ?  Was  it  not 
in  that  position  that  he  spoke  to  them  from  the  Mount  of 
Olives  ?  This  was  the  condition  of  preaching  at  the  end 
of  the  third  centurv. 

The  prayers  of  the  Church  were  at  first  spontaneous 
ejaculations,  short  and  earnest  entreaties,  —  with  no  set 
form  or  method.  The  sacred  sentences  of  the  Scriptures, 
which  were  diligently  studied  and  committed  to  memory 
by  persons  of  all  ages  and  conditions  soon  however 
made  an  essential  and  principal  part  of  the  service  of 
prayer.  The  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Apostolic  benediction 
were  very  freely  used.  There  is  no  evidence  nevertheless 
that  at  the  time  of  Constantine  anything  like  a  regular  liturgy 
had  been  formed.  The  prayers  in  the  religious  service, 
were  generally  two  in  number  beside  the  Lord's  prayer,  — • 
one  just  at  the  commencement  of  the  sermon,  when  the 
preacher  had  announced  his  intention  of  expounding  the 
particular  passage  which  had  been  read,  and  would  ask 
the  blessing  of  heaven  and  God's  aid  in  his  attempt,  and 
the  other,  at  the  close  of  the  sermon,  that  its  influence 
might  be  for  good.  This  custom  prevails  now  in  the  Ger- 
man and  the  French  Churches,  And  it  sometimes  in  their 
Churches  confuses  one,  who  is  not  accustomed  to  it,  to 
hear  the  preacher,  just  after  he  has  finished  the  introduc- 
tion to  his  discourse,  break  suddenly  into  a  prayer. 

During  the  first  two  centuries  prayers  were  made  almost 
exclusively  to  God  the  Father,  —  in  the  name  of  Christ. 
It  would  have  been  considered  in  the  Apostolic  Church 
almost  impiety  to  have  addressed  worship  to  any  other. 


SYMBOLISM.  Ill 


But  when  philosophical  speculations  and  controversies 
got  into  the  Church,  then  Christ  himself  became  the  object 
of  prayer.  It  was  these  theological  controversies  that 
brought  on  at  last  that  kind  of  idolatry  which  ended  in 
the  worship  of  the  Virgin,  of  martyrs  and  of  relics. 

That  part  of  the  worship  in  which  the  people  were  wont 
to  join,  were  the  responses  and  the  singing.  In  the 
earliest  Church  these  responses  were  two,  —  the  Amen 
and  the  Hallelujah.  The  Amen  was  ejaculated  by  the 
people  at  the  end  of  prayers,  the  sermons  and  the 
reading,  and  at  the  close  of  the  doxologies  or  benedic- 
tions. Sometimes  it  was  shouted  after  the  rite  of  baptism 
and  the  administration  of  the  Supper.  It  comes  from  a 
Hebrew  word,  signifying,  "  So  let  it  be."  The  Hallelu- 
jah is  a  word  which  means  "  praise  the  Lord,"  and  is 
derived  from  those  Psalms,  from  one  hundred  and  thirteen 
to  one  hundred  and  eighteen,  that  were  sung  at  the  Passo- 
ver,—  called  the  Great  Hallel.  The  tradition  was  that 
Jesus  sang  this  Hallel  with  his  disciples  at  the  Last  Sup- 
per. It  gradually  became  a  common  ejaculation,  and  at 
last  its  use  was  so  annoying  that  by  authority  it  was 
restricted  to  the  period  between  Easter  and  Whitsunday. 
In  the  Greek  Church  it  was  rather  an  ejaculation  of  grief 
and  of  penitence  ;  in  the  Latin  Church  it  denoted  Thanks- 
giving, and  its  proper  meaning  was  regarded.  There  were 
other  ejaculations  that  came  into  use  afterwards,  but  these 
were  all  that  are  found  in  the  first  period  of  Christian 
history. 

But  the  part  of  the  worship  which  the  first  Christians 
loved  best,  was  their  singing.  In  this  all  seemed  to  be 
equal  and  brethren  together.  Some  were  too  simple  to  un- 
destand,  and  too  ignorant  to  interpret,  the  truths  of  the 
Gospel.  But  the  most  unlettered  could  join  in  the  Psalms 
and  Hymns,  —  children  of  tender  years,  as  well  as  those 
who  bore  the  burdens  of  the  flock.  It  was  an  inherited 
love.  In  the  Jewish  ritual  the  whole  service  was  chanted. 
And  the  first  collection  of  sacred  sono^s  was  the  book  of 
Psalms,  which  had  always  been  kept  separate  from  the 
Law  and  the  Prophets.  These  the  Christians  were  never 
weary  of  rehearsing  together.  They  were  not  sung  to 
metrical  tunes,  but  were  rather  chanted,  —  sometimes  in  a 


112  SYMBOLISM. 


low  and  monotonous  key. —  sometimes  breakins:  into  the 
anthem  of  rapture.  Probably  the  spirit  of  the  singing  was 
better  than  the  melody. 

In  the  third  century  the  g^reat  men  of  the  Church  bes^an 
to  write  hymns,  which  were  first  suno^  by  the  faithful  in 
their  own  houses,  and  afterwards  introduced  into  the 
public  seryice.  At  the  time  of  Constantine  howeyer  the 
policy  of  Arius  had  brought  into  worship  a  great  number 
of  these  hymns,  mostly  of  a  doctrinal  character.  The 
Catholics  found  it  prudent  to  take  adyantage  of  the  loye 
for  music  to  counteract  heresy.  No  instrument  was  used 
except  the  human  voice.  The  yarious  methods  of  the 
Jews  to  produce  a  harmonious  accompaniment  were  all  set 
aside. 

The  method  was  something  like  the  old-fashioned  New 
England  method,  when  the  deacon  used  to  stand  in  front 
of  the  altar  and  read  the  lines  for  the  congregation  to 
sing.  That  practice  was  found  necessary  as  new  hymns 
increased  in  the  Church.  The  custom  of  choir-singing 
took  its  rise  when  they  began  to  chant  the  responses.  The 
congregation  then  divided  into  two  parts  and  chanted  in 
turn  the  separated  verses  of  the  Psalms  and  Hymns.  But 
for  the  three  centuries  after  the  death  of  Christ  there  was 
nothing  like  our  present  choirs  in  the  Church.  The  con- 
gregation stood  while  singing,  and  in  fact  this  seems  to 


have  been  the  posture  in  all  parts  of  the   service,  except 
the  administration  of  the  Supper. 

The  early  Church  had  only  two  services  that  could  be 
called  rifes.  And  even  one  of  these  was  not  so  in  the 
beginning.  Baptisfn  of  course  was  from  the  first  a  sym- 
bol, not  having  value  in  itself,  but  kept  up  for  its  religious 
significance.  It  was  not  only  an  inherited  custom  from 
the  Jewish  worship,  but  was  believed  to  be  expressly 
enjoined  by  the  Saviour.  It  was  confined  at  first  to  adults, 
and  administered  usually  just  before  admitting  them  to 
partake  of  the  Sacrament.  For  the  first  two  centuries  it 
was  a  public  rite,  and  all  could  witness  it.  After  that  it 
became  one  of  the  religious  mysteries,  and  was  applied  to 
infants  as  well  as  adults.  When  this  had  come,  the  place 
was  changed,  and  what  had  before  been  performed  in  the 
running  stream,  was  now  performed  in  an   artificial  pool 


SYMBOLISM.  113 


within  the  church  or  house.  Immersion  was  the  primitive 
method.  But  I  will  not  wear^''  vou  bv  goinsj  into  details 
upon  what  has  been  so  fruitful  a  theme  of  such  useless 
controversy. 

The  disputes  about  baptism  have  done  ver}''  much  to 
weaken  respect  for  the  ordinance.  But  it  is  still  now  as 
ever  one  of  the  most  touching,  beautiful  and  significant  of 
all  religious  services.  It  is  a  rite  which  the  Church  can 
never  outgrow,  and  in  some  form  or  other  it  will  keep  its 
place.  The  method  is  of  comparatively  small  importance, 
but  the  rite  itself  is  one  that  cannot  be  dispensed  with. 
And  as  we  have  come  now  to  a  general  belief  of  the  reli- 
gious theory  that  men  are  made  holy  rather  by  education 
into  holiness  than  bv  sudden  conversion,  so  there  is  all  the 
more  reason  why  we  should  observe  the  rite  of  infant  bap- 
tism, which  is  the  symbol  and  the  pledge  of  religious 
education. 

It  would  require  too  a  separate  and  a  long  lecture  even 
to  sketch  the  histor}^  of  the  rite  of  the  Lord's  Supper, — 
to  show  how  that  which  was  the  most  simple  of  friendly 
meals  became  the  most  sublime  and  awful  of  mysteries,  — 
how  the  communion  became  the  mass,  and  the  bread,  eaten 
in  our  Saviour's  memory,  became  his  ven,^  broken  body  by 
a  supernatural  change.  The  Lord's  Supper,  however,  is 
not  to  be  confounded  with  the  love  feasts  which  the  early 
Christians  held.  It  was  never  properly  a  feast,  and  its 
elements  were  very  simple.  It  became  a  rite  from  the 
same  necessity  that  drove  the  Church  from  the  upper  room 
in  the  house  to  a  special  sacred  place.  But  for  three  cen- 
turies it  continued  to  be  a  memorial,  but  not  a  supersti- 
tious rite.  And  its  observance  was  left  quite  free,  and 
hed2:ed  about  bv  none  of  those  artificial  rules  that  confine 
it  in  modern  times.  It  was  a  rite  of  the  utmost  import- 
ance, and  was  sent  to  the  sick  and  those  in  prison,  adminis- 
tered sometimes  too  even  to  infants.  All  the  old  writers 
are  full  in  its  injunction,  and  I  might  multiply  quotations  to 
show  what  estimate  they  put  upon  it.  Every  devout  be- 
liever felt  it  to  be  the  height  of  his  religious  joy,  when 
from  the  hand  of  his  bishop  he  could  receive  the  sacred 
elements.  The  method  of  administration  however  even 
at  the  time  of  Constantine,  was  more  like  our  Congrega- 
8 


114  SYMBOLISM. 


tional  than  that  which  is  the  Episcopal  or  Catholic  method. 
The  deacons  aided  the  bishop  in  the  distribution  of  the  ele- 
ments. Our  own  form  of  administration  differs  only 
slightly  from  the  form  in  the  Church  of  Constantine. 

We  have  followed  the  worship  of  the  Church  through 
the  first  period  of  history.  A  summary  of  the  progress 
can  best  be  given  b}^  a  simple  sketch  of  a  religious  service 
in  the  davs  of  Constantine.  Let  the  dav  be  Easter  Sun- 
day,  and  the  place  Athens,  where  Paul  had  become  a  hero 
greater  than  Plato  or  Pericles.  Early  in  the  morning,  the 
Christians  are  astir,  and  before  the  sun  has  risen,  are  set 
forth  on  their  way  over  the  rockv  hills,  and  throuo:h  the 
narrow  streets  to  the  house  of  their  solemnities.  The 
fresh,  clear  air  of  a  spring  morjiing,  the  smell  of  flowers 
and  the  song  of  birds  seem  to  lend  impulse  to  their  devo- 
tions. All  around  the  wild  and  lovely  ruins  tell  of  God's 
doings  in  the  past,  and  how  the  Pagan  gods  have  fallen. 
They  pass  by  Mars  Hill,  and  think  there  of  the  time  when 
an  Apostle  summoned  a  multitude  to  leave  their  idols  and 
worship  the  true  Jehovah.  Some  cross  the  place  where 
Socrates  once  walked  with  his  followers,  and  spoke  such 
profound  and  mystical  words,  and  think  then  that  they 
are  blest  in  hearing  a  higher  wisdom,  and  beholding  in 
the  risen  Jesus  a  holier  mystery.  Some  come  from  the 
outskirt  villages,  where  they  see  the  plains  of  Marathon 
on  their  way,  and  can  think  of  a  more  glorious  victory  than 
that  in  the  Cross  of  Christ.  The  desolation  and  ruin 
around  them  only  exalt  the  great  salvation.  But  they 
converge  from  every  side  to  a  plain,  lowly,  and  dull-col- 
ored building  in  one  of  the  narrower  streets.  The  build- 
ing fronts  towards  the  East,  where  stands  the  Jerusalem  of 
their  hope.  They  enter  not  through  the  front,  but  from  a 
court-yard  in  the  rear, — for  they  must  face  the  East  in  the 
worship  as  well  as  their  sanctuary.  As  they  enter,  the 
sound  of  loud  singing  greets  them.  They  are  chanting 
the  "  Glory  be  to  God  on  high,"  and  in  the  song  are  heard 
the  mingled  voices  of  childhood  and  age,  of  men  and 
maidens,  —  making  sweet  melody  with  their  hearts  to- 
gether, if  their  music  be  not  quite  perfect.  The  company, 
decently,  but  not  gaudily,  clad,  are  standing  around  the 
railing  of   the  altar.      Within  is  seen  the   Table  of   the 


SYMBOLISM.  115 


Lord,  adorned  with  the  sacred  vessels,  and  on  the  wall 
above  it  hangs  the  Cross,  emblem  of  a  dying  Saviour,  On 
a  raised  seat  at  the  side  sits  the  bishop,  and  one  or  two 
priests  and  deacons  wait  around  him.  You  will  see  nothing 
else  around  the  walls  to  attract  you,  no  painting  or  archi- 
tectural ornament,  only  the  plain,  simple  cemented  stone. 
Presently,  as  the  chant  ceases,  one  of  the  priests  passes  to 
the  little  desk  beside  the  table  and  opens  the  Bible,  which 
is  laid  thereon.  And  then  in  a  sad,  low  tone,  he  reads 
that  wail  of  the  Prophet  Isaiah,  where  he  foretells  the 
humiliation  and  the  agony  of  the  Redeemer.  There  is 
the  hush  of  anguish  among  the  silent  worshippers.  Then 
he  turns  to  the  twentieth  chapter  of  John's  Gospel,  and  the 
expression  of  joy  and  triumph  passes  upon  their  faces  as 
he  reads  how  Christ  rose  from  the  dead.  He  ends,  and 
another  rises  to  dictate  before  the  throng  St.  Clement's 
great  hymn  of  "Christ  the  Saviour,"  —  and  the  voices 
linger  sweetly  on  the  refrain  "  aifeif  uytMc,  vufetv  (xiioloi^^ 
axaxoig  ajofiuaiv,  nuidon^  i]yTjioQu  A'otCT/o/."  This  done, 
a  short  portion  of  Scripture  is  read  by  the  bishop. 
It  is  the  first  verses  of  John's  record,  "  In  the  beginning 
was  the  word,  and  the  word  was  with  God,  and  the  word 
was  God."  And  then,  having  lifted  a  fervent  prayer,  in 
simple  phrase  he  expounds  the  secret  mystery  of  this  pas- 
sage. 

He  shows  them  the  great  plan  of  redemption  concealed 
in  this  union  of  God  with  a  human  soul,  —  how  the  logos 
is  no  attribute,  but  a  real  person,  in  wonderful  guise  the 
word  was  made  flesh.  And  as  he  exalts  the  bounty  of  that 
celestial  love,  that  did  so  incarnate  the  Divine  word,  and 
provide  for  man's  salvation,  what  rapture  kindles  on  his 
countenance.  How  the  dignity  of  his  theme  seems  to 
raise  him  almost  to  the  place  of  a  divine  interpreter.  And 
then  there  is  seen  a  frown  darkening  his  face  as  he  speaks 
of  the  impious  heresies  with  which  evil  men  are  infecting 
the  Church,  robbing  Christ  of  his  dignity,  and  making  the 
salvation  of  Christ  only  part  of  a  heathen  order.  He 
compares  too  the  darkness  of  the  old  philosophies,  which 
never  exhibited  one  risen  from  the  dead,  with  the  clear 
beauty  of  the  Christian  promise.  And  before  he  closes, 
you  have  seen  the  sacred  oracles  of  the  holy  volume  pass 


Ii6  SY3fB0LISM. 


into  precepts  of  virtue  and  promises  of  joy.  Insensibly 
his  word  of  interpretation  melts  into  prayer,  and  he  is 
leading  the  hearts  of  the  multitude  to  the  throne  of  Grace. 
And  now  they  chant  in  soft  and  plaintive  tone  the  Psalm 
that  Christ,  in  his  anguish,  remembered,  "Eli,  Eli,  lama 
sabacthani." 

Then,  for  a  little  while,  all  pause  in  silent  prayer,  until 
one  of  the  priests  shall  supplicate  God's  kind  care  for  all 
conditions  of  men.  Then  come  forward  in  turn  the 
brethren  with  their  offerings,  all  have  something  to  give, — 
the  wealthy  gold  for  the  needs  of  the  sanctuary,  and  bread 
and  wine  for  the  holv  office,  —  the  widow  her  mite.  The 
elements  are  placed  upon  the  table  and  covered  with  the 
napkin.  Then,  after  the  priests  have  washed  their  hands 
before  the  people,  to  fulfill  the  word  of  the  Psalmist,  and 
the  kiss  of  peace  has  passed  from  them  through  the  com- 
pany, each  saluting  his  neighbors,  commences  the  service 
of  communion. 

Those  who  were  baptised  yesterday  in  the  classic  brook, 
now  pledge  at  the  altar  their  allegiance  to  God,  and  devo- 
tion to  his  truth.  They  seemed,  dressed  in  robes  of  white 
before  the  altar,  to  be  the  best  votive  offering  that  the 
Church  can  give  on  their  day  of  rejoicing.  Now  the 
people  are  earnestly  exhorted  to  be  true  to  their  vows. 
The  entreaties  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Romans  are  rehearsed 
again,  and,  as  they  come  forward  to  the  altar,  all  join  in 
that  beautiful  Psalm,  "  Behold  how  good  and  pleasant  it  is 
for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity."  Then  by  repeat- 
ing the  words  of  Christ  as  he  broke  the  bread  and  wine, 
and  asking  a  simple  blessing,  they  are  consecrated  to  their 
use,  and  are  handed  round  to  the  brethren  by  the  ministers 
present,  saying,  as  they  go,  "  The  body  of  Christ,  the  blood 
of  Christ." 

Silently  the  feast  goes  on,  broken  sometimes  by  sobs  of 
grief,  sometimes  by  half-restrained  sighs.  But  when  it 
is  over,  they  break  into  a  thanksgiving,  —  the  friends  of 
those  who  are  sick  or  absent  take  charge  of  the  portion 
that  is  for  these,  the  benediction,  "  Go  in  peace,"  is  uttered 
and  the  service  is  over.  How  simple  and  beautiful.  As 
the  rest  depart,  one  or  two  linger  behind,  perhaps  to  tell 
some  tidings  of  recent  religious  persecution,  —  perhaps  to 


SYMBOLISM.  117 


meditate  upon  the  deep  truths  that  have  passed,  as  in  a 
vision,  before  them.  But  all  have  separated  to  their 
homes,  before  the  mid-hour  of  Pagan  labor  has  come. 
Some  will  return  when  the  day  is  declining  to  talk  and  sing 
anew  in  their  tabernacle  of  faith.  But  no  curious  heathen 
eye  could  discover  when  the  meridian  sun  sends  light 
through  the  narrow  streets,  that  here  was  anything  else  than 
a  house  of  the  meaner  sort.  No  si2:n  around  would  tell 
him  of  the  beautiful  service  that  had  passed  therein  since 
the  break  of  day,  and  had  given  to  Athens  a  more 
sacred  glory  than  the  morning  walks  of  Plato,  or  the  ap- 
peals of  Demosthenes. 

This  sketch  will  serve  to  show  the  position  of  worship 
in  the  Church  at  the  close  of  the  third  century.  The 
establishment  of  Christianity  as  the  religion  of  the  empire 
by  Constantine  brought  about  a  striking  change  in  all 
parts  of  the  Christian  ritual.  And  the  great  work  which 
Gregory  did,  at  the  close  of  the  second  period,  was  only 
to  prepare  the  elements  formed  to  his  hands.  Perhaps 
the  most  sudden  and  thorough  change  was  in  the  kind  and 
appearance  of  the  buildings  for  public  worship.  Now  the 
meeting-houses   became   temples.      They  were  placed  on 


the  most  eligible  sites,  sometimes  on  the  ruins  of  Pagan 
temples,  —  sometimes  the  very  Pagan  temples  with  their 
name  and  their  god  transformed.  Emperors  vied  with 
each  other  in  the  numbers  and  costliness  of  their  churches. 
They  were  set  upon  the  hills,  and  their  broad  porches  and 
elaborate  columns  rivalled  the  relics  of  Pa^an  art  in 
majesty  and  beauty. 

Now  the  altar  within  became  a  kind  of  throne  for  Jeho- 
vah, and  its  marble  was  inlaid  with  jewels  and  gold, 
and  candlesticks  blazed  upon  it.  By  the  solemn  rite  of 
dedication,  the  church  was  set  apart  as  a  sacred  place,  and 
became  to  the  brethren  a  holy  of  holies.  About  the  mid- 
dle of  the  sixth  century,  about  the  same  distance  from 
Constantine's  time  that  we  are  from  the  landins:  of  the 
Pilgrims,  the  Emperor  Justinian  commenced  building  at 
Constantinople  the  magnificent  Church  of  wSt.  Sophia, 
where  stands  now  the  holiest  of  Moslem  mosques,  —  which 
he  considered  to  be  the  greatest  work  of  his  life,  greater  even 
than  the  code  of  laws  which  he  gave  to  the  world.     His 


ii8  SYMBOLISM. 


proud  expression,  when  the  work  of  forty  years  was  done, 
was,  "  I  have  conquered  thee,  Solomon." 

It  was  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  in  height,  and  cost 
$5,000,000.  Forty  thousand  pounds  of  silver  were  used  in 
decorating  the  altar,  and  its  retinue  of  special  ministers 
and  attendants  was  five  hundred  and  twenty-five.  The 
Gothic  style,  with  its  pointed  arch  and  rich  interlacing 
tracery,  began  now  to  encroach  upon  the  plainer  Grecian. 
And  churches  began  to  point  their  tapering  spires  to  the 
sky.  The  cross  became  the  form  which  the  building  took, 
and  the  divisions  of  the  altar,  the  nave  and  the  portico 
were  more  distinctly  marked  off.  Great  libraries  were 
attached  to  the  churches,  —  that  of  St.  Sophia  contained 
one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  volumes.  The  worship- 
per in  a  church  of  the  sixth  century  trod  upon  a  beautiful 
floor  of  tessellated  marble,  inlaid  with  the  finest  mosaics. 
On  the  walls  were  paintings  of  Scriptural  scenes  and 
sculptured  heads  of  the  old  Apostles.  The  shields  of 
heroes  and  the  spoils  of  war  were  hung  up  in  the  temple 
for  ornament.  And  from  these  the  lights  hung  down. 
The  sanctuary  became  a  place  of  refuge,  and,  as  in  the 
old  Roman  temples,  the  worst  criminal  was  safe  so  long  as 
he  stayed  by  the  altar.  In  less  than  three  centuries,  from 
obscure  and  plain  tabernacles,  the  houses  of  Christian 
worship  had  become  gorgeous  cathedrals, — ^and  the 
Church  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  at  Rome  was  a  more 
attractive  object  of  pilgrimage  than  even  the  temple  of 
Olympian  Jupiter. 

Now  too  feast-days  began  rapidly  to  multiply.  The 
degraded  people  had  little  else  to  do  than  to  spend  time 
in  sport  or  rioting,  and  this  tendency  showed  itself  among 
the  Christians  in  the  new  festivals  to  which  every  year  gave 
rise.  Christmas  came  in,  a  conjectural  day  at  first,  but 
fixed  at  last  by  custom  on  the  day  of  its  present  use. 
Then  Mary,  the  mother  of  God,  as  she  received  divine 
honors,  had  a  day  set  apart  for  her  service.  The  mart3a-s 
had  their  share.  And  the  epigram  of  a  reformer  upon 
Rome  in  this  latter  age,  that  the  Saints'  days  left  no  room 
for  any  secular  time,  was  almost  true  when  Gregory  as- 
sumed the  helm  of  the  Church.  The  regular  fasts  now 
were  appointed  on  Wednesday,  the  day  of  our  Saviour's 


SYMBOLISM.  119 


betrayal,  and  on  Friday,  the  day  of  his  crucifixion.  On 
these  no  meat  should  be  eaten,  and  only  the  simplest  kind 
of  food  was  enjoined.  Some  ev^en  taui^ht  that  the  forty 
days  before  the  feast  of  Easter,  which  is  now  called  Lent, 
should  be  spent  in  fasting. 

Now  too  the  reading  of  the  Scriptures,  which  had 
before  been  untrammeled  by  severe  rules,  became  a  sys- 
tematic and  formal  matter.  They  were  parcelled  off  into 
separate  lessons,  which  were  rehearsed  in  a  sort  of  monoto- 
nous chant.  No  special  events  were  allowed  to  guide 
it.  The  cumbrous  ceremonies  of  the  Levitical  Law  were 
read  thus  to  the  people  as  if  they  were  important  truths, 
and  the  thunderins:  of  invading:  armies  could  not  unsettle 
the  prescribed  routine.  Now  sermons  too  passed  from 
the  expository  into  the  declamatory  style.  Preachers 
studied  the  rules  of  rhetoric,  and  borrowed  the  arts  of  the 
popular  orator.  They  directed  appeals  to  the  prejudices 
and  passions  of  men,  and  flattered  while  they  warned 
their  hearers.  In  the  cathedral  churches  the  bishops  were 
the  orators  of  the  world.  Men  crowded  to  hear  Chrysos- 
tom  and  Ambrose  as  they  would  to  the  play  or  circus. 
Applause  waited  upon  their  words.  And  even  their  most 
terrible  warnings  captivated  by  their  beauty.  The  sermon 
became  an  entertainment  as  well  as  a  searching  exposition 
of  Scripture.  And  men  expected  to  hear  the  truth  of 
Christ  softened  by  the  periods  of  yEschines  or  Tulh',  and 
mino^led  with  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  the  classic  sacres. 

In  the  fourth  century  the  service  of  prayer,  which  had 
before  been  a  spontaneous  outpouring  of  the  heart  to  God, 
was  drawn  out  into  liturgies.  And  forms  were  given  to  be 
used  everywhere  through  the  Church.  The  new  splendor 
of  the  sacred  Courts  seemed  to  demand  such  a  ritual. 
Indeed  it  is  observable  everywhere  that  increased  magni- 
nificence  in  church  building  brings  in  more  formality  of 
service.  There  is  a  kind  of  consistency  about  it.  And  it 
is  easy  to  feel,  as  many  do,  that  Congregational  worship  is 
out  of  place  in  a  highly  decorated  temple.  And  the 
prayers  that  were  very  natural  in  the  gatherings  of  the 
caves  by  night  became  presumptuous  in  the  great  cathedral 
halls. 

At  the  time  of  Gregory  there  were  four  distinct  liturgies 


I20  SYMBOLISM. 


fixed  in  the  Church,  each  of  them  old  enough  to  have  a 
history.  To  each  was  the  name  of  some  Apostle  appended, 
without  any  authority  however.  The  liturgy  of  Antioch 
bore  the  name  of  James,  the  Alexandrian  of  Mark,  the 
Roman  of  Peter,  and  the  Galilean  of  John.  At  the  time 
of  Gregory  these  had  reached  that  point  where  they  were 
just  ready  to  be  changed  into  the  mass.  The  hymns  and 
the  prayers  were  chanted  together,  and  a  Pagan  hearer 
could  hardly  tell  which  was  the  penitence  and  which  the 
praise.  It  was  a  fatal  progress  for  spiritual  religion. 
Beautiful  as  were  the  offices  that  were  thus  established  in 
the  Christian  ritual,  their  final  tendencv  was  to  check  fe^- 
vor  of  devotion,  and  reduce  the  service  of  the  sanctuary  to 
a  mechanical  routine.  Men  became  wearv  of  the  words 
of  Basil  and  Ambrose  when  they  heard  them  every  day. 
And  though  Attila  could  look  with  barbaric  wonder  upon 
the  splendid  pageant  of  a  Christian  ceremony,  he  could 
not  say,  with  the  great  man  of  an  earlier  age,  "  See  how 
these  Christians  love  one  another." 

The  union  of  words  so  stronsrlv  cemented,  bv  which  the 
prayers  of  one  were  the  prayers  of  all,  was  no  true  type  of 
a  spiritual  union, — of  heart  joined  to  heart.  There  were 
never  more  private  interests,  more  jealousies,  more  usurpa- 
tions of  individual  churches,  more  practical  egotism,  than 
when  the  Avhole  Latin  Church  was  in  possession  of  a  com- 
mon form  of  pra3^er  and  praise.  The  true  interchange  of 
gifts  and  graces,  true  charity,  forbearance,  and  kindness 
were  far  more  conspicuous  in  that  early  time,  when  each 
one  spake  and  sang  as  he  felt,  moved  by  the  spirit.  It 
will  be  so  forever.  You  cannot  bind  the  hearts  of  men 
together  by  giving  them  a  common  form  of  words,  or  even 
a  common  written  creed.  These  will  create  no  doubt  an 
appearance  of  mutual  love,  but  the  appearance  will  be  as 
much  a  form  as  the  words  used.  There  are  many  excel- 
lencies no  doubt  in  written  forms  of  prayer. 

I  never  worship  in  an  Episcopal  or  a  Catholic  Church 
without  feeling  the  exceeding  beauty  of  their  devotional 
service.  Those  prayers  are  marvels  of  dignity,  compre- 
hensiveness, and  simple  fervor,  —  worthy  of  their  high 
theme,  yet  such  as  a  child  could  utter.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  claim  set  up  for  these  written  forms,  that 


SYMBOLISjL  121 


thev  increase  the  essential  love  of  Christian  brethren  for 
each  other,  is  true.  They  become  no  doubt  the  centre 
of  many  religious  courtesies, —  but  the  love  of  the  heart 
is  not  easily  promoted  by  that  which  enchains  the  tongue. 
It  lies  deeper  than  the  surface.  It  comes  from  having 
religious  ideas  and  feelings  in  common,  no  matter  in  what 
phrase  the  words  of  prayer  may  be.  It  is  the  conference 
room  where  everything  is  free,  that  brethren  are  drawn 
most  closely  together.     This  is  a  universal  experience. 

The  heathen  art  of  music  now  found  a  place  in  the  oc- 
cupations of  the  faithful.  And  the  singing,  which  had 
before  been  more  spirited  than  melodious,  began  to  be 
drawn  out  in  harmonious  numbers.  Trained  choirs  per- 
formed this  work  for  the  people,  and  their  enraptured  ears 
listened  to  the  rising  and  falling  cadences  as  they  echoed 
through  the  aisles  and  arches.  Now  hymns  were  written 
for  music  and  for  religious  occasions.  There  was  music 
at  the  bridal  and  at  the  funeral ;  and  the  best  Christian 
poets  tried  their  powers  in  writing  birth-day  odes,  and 
requiems  for  the  dead.  A  beautiful  specimen  of  this  is 
a  funeral  hymn  of  Prudentius,  a  Christian  poet  of  the 
third  century : 

1.  —  Whv,  ye  mothers,  why  this  sadness."* 

Why  do  tears  your  cheeks  bedew.'' 
Why  should  death  disturb  your  gladness? 
Death  doth  truest  life  renew. 

2.  —  Dark  and  cold  the  vacant  hollow, 

Still  the  bier  beneath  the  stone, 
Yet  no  night  the  death  shall  follow, 
Morning  glows  where  he  has  gone. 

3.  —  Leave  the  corpse  !     An  useless  covering, 

Peaceful  in  the  grave  to  lie, 
Soon  the  Spirit  lightly  moving, 
Holier  dress  shall  weave  on  high. 

4.  —  Time  shall  come  of  strange  reviving, 

Breath  these  mouldering  bones  shall  warm. 
To  a  nobler  being  striving, 

They  shall  bear  a  brighter  form. 

5-  —  What  ye  now  consign  to  burial, 

Food  for  worms,  beneath  the  sod, 
Soon,  like  eagles,  through  the  Empyreal, 
Glad  shall  speed  its  way  to  God. 


122  SYMBOLISM. 


6.  —  As  from  a  dry  and  rattling  kernel 
Dropped  into  the  lap  of  earth, 
Joyfully  in  beauty  vernal, 

Nodding  grain-ears  burst  to  birth. 


'fc>  o'^ 


7.  —  Earth  !     This  form  to  thy  embraces, 
Take  and  fold  it  safe  to  rest ; 
Dead,  yet  lingering  still  the  traces 
Of  the  love  that  warmed  its  breast. 

8. —  Once  a  soul,  by  God  inspired, 
Here  as  in  a  temple  dwelt; 
Now  to  Christian  ardor  fired, 
Now  in  pity's  tears  would  melt. 

9.  —  Leave  the  body  then  to  slumber, 
Let  it  wait  that  trumpet-call, 
When  the  Judge  the  dead  shall  number, 
Gathering  in  his  Sentence-hall, 

10.  —  Then,  O  Death,  thy  reign  is  ended, 
New  life  fills  the  crumbling  clay, 
Mortal  dust  with  angel  blended, 
Keep  in  heaven  eternal  clay. 

In  this  period  the  ordinances  of  the  Church  gradually 
changed  from  simple  symbolical  acts  to  most  imposing  and 
momentous  ceremonies.  The  Lord's  Supper  became  a 
mass,  and  the  brethren  knelt  when  the  host  was  lifted,  and 
veiled  their  faces  before  its  awful  mystery.  The  doctrine 
of  Transubstantiation  having  become  part  of  the  general 
creed,  —  men  eat  the  transmuted  bread  with  fear  and 
trembling,  as  if  partaking  of  Christ's  holy  flesh,  —  and  the 
red  wine  gained  to  their  taste  the  savor  of  the  new  blood 
of  suffering.  Baptism  too  passed  from  the  sign  of  future 
purity  into  a  pledge  of  divine  favor,  and  the  child  with 
sprinkled  forehead  seemed  chosen  henceforth  an  heir  of 
the  kingdom,  and  armed,  like  Achilles,  with  panoply 
divine. 

Now  other  sacraments  were  added.  Marriage,  from  a 
contract,  became  a  rite,  and  its  religious  outweighed  its 
secular  obligations.  The  dying  man  received  the  oil  upon 
his  forehead  as  the  final  seal  by  God  of  his  reception  on 
high.  A  newly- discovered  Purgatory  made  necessary 
many  gifts  from  the  brethren  of  'the  Church  to  rescue 
souls  from  that  doubtful  state.  And  prayers  for  the  dead 
made  an  important  portion  of  the  worship  of  the  living. 


SYMBOLISM.  123 


One  could  hardlv  discover  in  the  multitude  of  feasts  and 
fasts,  of  sacraments  and  chants,  of  vestments  and  of 
images,  any  vestige  of  the  worship  of  that  little  band,  who, 
in  an  upper  room  at  Jerusalem,  bewailed  their  Master's 
death,  and,  by  prayer  and  counsel,  found  strength  for  their 
great  missionary  enterprise. 

But  we  may  concentrate  the  changes  that  took  place  in 
worship  in  the  course  of  three  centuries,  as  before,  in  a  pic- 
ture of  a  reliirious  service  of  the  time  of  Gre^rorv  the  Great. 
The  place  shall  be  at  Rome,  for  Rome  is  now  the  home 
of  universal  spiritual  dominion,  and  her  bishop  can  look 
round  on  every  side  as  a  Christian  emperor  upon  his  sub- 
jects. The  time  shall  be  the  martyrdom-day  of  St.  Peter, 
for  this  has  come  to  share  the  reverence  of  the  world  with 
the  birth-day  of  Christ.  On  the  29th  of  June,  when  the 
hot  sun  of  a  Southern  summer  is  pouring  down  its  rays 
upon  the  shining  pavement,  a  gay  crowd,  in  many  colors 
and  from  many  climes,  are  seen  thronging  to  the  great 
church  of  the  prince  of  the  Apostles.  As  they  enter,  their 
eyes  are  greeted  by  a  raised  altar,  blazing  in  the  distance 
with  light  and  gold,  and  the  soft  music  of  answering  choirs, 
from  either  side,  bids  them  welcome  to  the  solemn  mass. 
On  every  side,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  marble  images,  or 
strange  scriptural  scenes,  painted  on  wood,  tell  them  that 
this  is  a  holy  place.  They  tread  gently  for  fear  of  soiling 
the  fine  mosaic  beneath  their  feet.  Behind  the  chancel 
railing  sits  in  his  chair  of  state,  the  most  serene  Vicar  of 
God.  Before  him,  kneeling,  two  priests  hold  the  Latin 
mass-book,  on  painted  parchment,  and  from  that  he  chants 
the  prayers  to  which  the  choirs  respond.  No  word  is  heard 
from  the  people,  but  only  suspended  breathing  makes  the 
silence  audible.  Now  a  priest  in  purple  garments  mounts 
the  raised  pulpit,  and  then,  without  Scriptural  preface, 
breaks  into  a  florid  harangue.  It  is  eulogy  of  the  Church 
and  of  the  Blessed  Apostle  that  forms  the  burden  of  his 
message. 

He  tells  how  Peter  was  crucified  with  his  head  down- 
ward,—  what  miracles  God  has  wrought  with  his  sacred 
bones,  and  holds  up  before  them  a  fragment  of  that  mantle 
which  wiped  his  tears  away  when  his  Master  rebuked  him. 
He  tells  them  of  the  blessings  then  that  shall  come  to  the 


124  SYMBOLISM. 


true  believer,  and  paints  in  luxurious  colors  the  Christian 
Paradise.  But,  Oh  !  there  are  wailing  spirits  that  fly  be- 
tween heaven  and  hell, —  will  not  the  faithful  rescue  them 
by  liberal  gifts  and  earnest  prayers  ?  Will  they  not  give  of 
their  substance  to  save  these  souls  from  final  woe  ?  And 
more  like  this,  till  another  follows,  who  in  melting  tones 
describes  so  mournfully  the  sufferings  of  the  martyr,  that 
the  whole  multitude  are  dissolved  in  sentimental  grief,  and 
can  hardly  behold  the  ceremony  which  succeeds,  when  a 
hundred  priests  in  turn  distribute  to  each  other  the  kiss, 
and  receive  from  the  Bishop  a  fatherlv  benediction. 

And  now  the  his^h  service  besfins.  The  anthem  sounds 
from  the  choir.  Xew  candles  suddenly  burst  into  flame 
upon  the  altar.  And  in  their  glow  are  seen  the  forms  of 
the  dying  Peter  and  the  praying  Virgin  on  either  side  of 
Christ  upon  his  Cross.  With  stately  step,  the  bishop 
advances  with  his  retinue  behind  him.  The  audience 
tremble  with  sudden  awe  as  thev  hear  the  masrical  words 
that  restore  again  the  agony  and  open  the  wounds  of 
Jesus  the  Crucified.  Every  head  is  bowed.  Slowly  and 
reverently,  as  in  the  sight  of  God  alone,  the  bishop  eats 
the  wafer  and  drinks  the  wine.  The  vault  of  the  church 
is  full  of  the  sound  of  low  wailing  voices,  and  a  superna- 
tural darkness  seems  to  be  on  every  form.  There  is  a 
fearful  pause,  and  it  is  finished.  A  hallelujah  rings  out 
and  the  arches  are  vocal  now  as  with  angel  voices  of 
praise. 

The  great  service  of  the  Christian  feast-day  is  over,  and 
that  crowd  srathered  so  seriouslv  in  the  morninsr,  the  even- 
ing  shall  find  crowding  the  theatre  or  the  chariot-race. 
The  pageant  of  the  morning  has  furnished  an  excuse 
for  the  dissipation  of  the  evening.  This  is  a  picture, 
faintly-colored,  of  the  Catholic  religious  service,  such  as  it 
was  when  Gregory  took  the  helm  of  spiritual  power.  He 
gave  order  to  this  custom,  and  finally  established  it  as  the 
Christian  ritual. 


GEEGORT  THE   GREAT.  125 


IV. 

GREGORY  THE  GREAT  AND   HIS   INFLUENCE. 

"  He  who  will  speak  with  power  in  the  name  of  the 
Most  High,  must  manifest  in  his  life  the  law  of  the  Most 
High."  This  sentence  from  the  great  work  of  Gregorys  on 
the  Christian  Pastor  and  his  work  is  the  general  formula  of 
his  own  life.  The  Christian  teacher  must  be  himself  a 
Christian  before  he  can  teach,  and  he  will  teach  just  so 
far  and  only  so  far,  as  he  is  a  Christian.  The  formula  has 
been  proved  by  memorable  examples  in  Christian  history, 
and  the  life  of  every  successful  minister  of  God  bears  wit- 
ness to  it. 

Characters  of  more  striking  interest  than  that  of  the 
Great  Gregory  have  passed  before  us  in  the  great  doctors 
of  the  Latin  Church,  but  we  find  in  him  an  assemblage  of 
contrasts  not  elsewhere  met  with.  So  much  that  is  puerile 
joined  to  so  much  that  is  lovely,  such  narrow  bigotry  united 
to  such  wide  charity,  such  practical,  added  to  such  ideal, 
tastes,  rarely  make  their  appearance  in  the  annals  of  the 
Church.  In  one  view,  the  creature  of  circumstances, 
the  man  of  the  age,  because  moulded  by  the  age ;  in 
another  view,  the  creator  of  events,  the  man  of  the  age, 
because  the  maker  of  its  issues ;  at  once  a  Pope  and  an 
Apostle ;  a  fanatic  and  a  saint ;  austere  in  bearing,  but 
humble  in  spirit ;  the  legislator  of  pomp  and  show,  yet  a 
lover  always  of  simple  fitness;  a  merchant-prince  for  the 
Church,  filling  its  coffers,  and  watchful  of  its  revenues, 
yet  a  very  anchorite  in  self-denial  and  frugality;  frank  in 
demeanor,  but  shrewd  in  policy,  he  stands  in  the  record 
in  strange  isolation,  yet  we  feel  him  to  be  our  brother 
after  all. 

The  name  of  Gregory  is  as  much  connected  with  the 
establishment  of  the  Catholic  ritual,  as  that  of  Leo  with 
the  establishment  of  the  Catholic  power.     But  there  is  far 


126  GBEGORY   THE  GREAT. 

more  individualit}'  in  the  life  of  the  former.  Leo  is  the 
representative  merely  of  an  idea.  He  has  no  personal 
biography.  He  is  only  the  first  of  the  Popes,  great  in 
position,  but  nothing  by  himself.  Gregory,  on  the  con- 
trary, if  he  had  never  done  anything  for  music,  for  poetry, 
or  for  worship,  would  still  have  been  a  marked  man,  and 
worthy  of  the  title,  which  his  own  age  gave  him,  and  which 
no  succeeding  age  has  annulled,  of  "  the  Great."  He 
was  not  merely  the  former  of  choirs  or  the  framer  of  litur- 
gies, but  a  man,  with  human  sympathies,  a  minister  most 
devoted  and  faithful,  a  prelate,  able  and  vigorous,  a 
sovereign  powerful  and  commanding.  He  was  a  man  to 
be  loved,  admired  or  feared,  according  as  one  looked  upon 
his  purity,  his  talents,  or  his  strength.  Even  the  infidel 
historian  of  the  secular  decline  of  Rome  and  its  dominion, 
pauses  to  speak  of  the  Great  Ruler  of  the  Church,  who 
showed  in  an  age  of  decline  so  rare  a  union  of  gifts  and 
graces. 

Gregory  was  born  in  Rome  about  the  year  540  of  our 
era.  His  parents  were  of  noble  lineage  and  high  in  dis- 
tinction. But  either  so  high  ran  their  religious  zeal,  or  so 
low  had  fallen  the  standard  of  profane  scholarship,  that 
even  the  child  of  noble  birth  was  not  suffered  to  study  in 
the  heathen  poets  or  philosophers.  In  the  dreamy  round 
of  pious  pleasures  passed  away  the  first  years  of  his  life, 
and  he  hardly  knew  how  the  civil  dignity  had  been  put 
upon  him,  when  he  found  himself  at  the  age  of  thirty  pre- 
fect of  Rome,  his  father  dead  and  his  mother  in  a  clois- 
ter. It  was  not  till  this  mature  age  that  he  began  to  be 
troubled  by  the  conflict  within  his  heart  between  the  carnal 
and  the  spiritual,  between  his  duty  to  the  world,  and  his 
desire  to  see  God,  between  ambition  and  aspiration.  Bur- 
dened with  the  cares  of  life,  he  felt  then  the  necessity  of 
spiritual  rest.  And  the  conflict  ended  then  by  the  victory 
of  the  spiritual  desire  over  the  temporal  interest. 

At  the  age  of  forty,  tne  patrician  child  had  sacrificed 
wealth,  rank,  honor,  and  power  to  his  pious  resolve.  Six 
convents  in  Sicily  had  sprung  into  being  on  his  endowment, 
and  what  remained  of  his  wealth  was  devoted  to  a  Bene- 
dictine monastery  in  his  own  house,  into  which  he  entered 
as  the  most  rigid  of  the  monks  there.     Long  fasts  macer- 


GUEGORY  THE  GEE  AT.  127 


ated  his  body;  and  he  aimed,  by  double  penances,  to 
expiate  not  so  much  the  sins  as  the  enjoyments  of  his 
youth.  This  period  of  cloister  hfe,  though  short  in  dura- 
tion, Gres:orv  was  accustomed  to  reirard  as  the  oasis  in 
the  desert  of  his  career,  and  to  say  that  he  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  deprived  of  every  pleasure,  and  doubtful 
whether  each  day  should  not  be  his  last.  But  a  genius 
like  his  could  not  be  left  to  waste  itself  in  mumbling 
litanies  within  convent-walls. 

The  ma2:nitude  of  his  gifts  to  the  Church  marked  him 
as  meet  for  the  work  of  the  Church.  The  Pope  com- 
manded him  to  go  as  Legate  to  the  Emperor's  Court  at 
Constantinople.  The  heart  of  Gregory  relucted,  but  he  had 
learned  obedience  too  well  to  refuse.  He  regarded  it  as  a 
salvation  that  his  train  of  brother  monks  could  follow  him 
there,  and  keep  in  his  mind  his  religious  duties,  even  in 
that  luxurious  and  intriguing  Court.  Dignities  did  not 
corrupt  him.  The  honor  of  standing  godfather  to  the 
emperor's  son  at  baptism  did  not  seduce  him  from  his 
unworldly  love.  But  he  gave  rather  heed  to  purity  of 
faith,  and  sanctity  of  life,  rebuking  when  he  found  any  to 
be  unsound,  and  praying  for  the  conversion  of  all  heathen, 
both  of  Christian  and  Pagan  name.  He  remained  at 
Constantinople  seven  years,  when,  to  his  great  joy,  his 
recall  was  ordered,  and  he  was  permitted  to  become  in 
quiet  the  Abbot  of  the  monastery  which  he  had  founded. 
The  order  and  firmness  and  patience  of  his  administration 
here  seemed  to  mark  his  fitness  for  higher  dignities. 

■  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  first  conceived  the  plan  of 
sending  a  mission  to  the  distant  isle  of  Britain,  where  then 
a  race  of  beautiful  savages,  called  Anglo-Saxons,  dwelt. 
The  impulse  took  its  rise  from  the  following  incident : 
Rome  at  this  period  was  to  the  Empire  not  only  a  seat  of 
civil  power,  but  a  great  central  slave-market.  One  day, 
when  Gregory  w^as  walking  through  the  mart,  he  was 
struck  by  the  beautiful  countenances  and  complexion  of  a 
group  that  were  exposed  for  sale,  and  he  stopped  to  inquire 
whether  they  were  Christians  or  heathens.  On  hearing 
that  they  w^ere  heathen,  he  answered  with  a  sigh,  that 
it  was  a  lamentable  thing  that  the  prince  of  darkness 
should  be  master  of  so  much  beauty,  and  have  such  comely 


128  GREGORY  THE  GREAT. 

persons  in  his  possession  ;  and  tiiat  so  fine  an  outside 
should  have  nothing  of  God's  grace  to  furnish  it  within. 
The  venerable  Bede  adds,  in  his  narrative,  some  poor  puns 
made  by  the  hoi}?-  Abbot,  which,  however,  the  vanity  of 
a  Saxon  may  well  be  pardoned  for  repeating.  When  told 
that  the  slaves  were  Angli,  Gregory  answered,  "  Right, 
for  they  have  angelical  faces,  and  are  fit  to  be  company  to 
the  angels  in  heaven."  Asking  the  name  of  their  province, 
he  was  answered  that  it  was  called  "  Deira."  '"Truly," 
said  he,  "  They  are  withdrawn  from  God's  wrath  in  coming 
here.  And  the  king  of  that  province,  how  is  he  named  ?  " 
"  Alle!"  "  Allelujah,"  said  Gregory,  "shall  then  be  sung 
in  those  regions." 

He  applied  at  once  to  send  a  mission  to  Britain.  And 
finding  no  one  willing  to  lead  it,  he  set  out  himself  with  a 
company  of  his  own  monks.  But  the  city  was  in  such  an 
uproar  at  his  departure,  that  the  Pope  sent  after  him 
speedily,  and  on  the  third  day  he  was  overtaken  and  com- 
pelled to  return  to  Rome.  He  was  afterwards  enabled  to 
fulfill  his  desire  on  a  broader  scale. 

Some  signal  acts  of  discipline  in  his  convent,  began  to 
mark  him  already  as  a  fit  person  for  the  Papal  office,  when 
a  vacancy  should  occur.  The  case  of  Justus  is  related 
with  needless  minuteness.  This  monk  confessed,  on  his 
death  bed,  that  in  violation  of  his  poverty  he  had  obtained 
and  kept  three  pieces  of  gold.  Gregory  not  only  forbade 
the  community  to  pray  at  his  bedside,  but  had  the  discipline 
strictly  observed,  the  corpse  buried  under  a  dunghill,  and 
the  three  pieces  of  money  thrown  into  it ;  and  all  this, 
though  the  man  died  penitent.  The  most  that  he  allowed 
was  a  mass  for  his  soul  of  thirty  days. 

Gregory  had  just  completed  his  fiftieth  year  when  the 
acclamation  of  bishops  and  people  called  him  to  the 
Pontifical  chair.  He  had  no  mind  to  accept  the  duty. 
And  by  letters  to  the  emperor  and  his  sisters,  and  the 
bishop  of  Constantinople,  he  sought  to  prevail  on  them 
that  the  choice  should  be  annulled.  But  his  hesitation  and 
self-distrust  were,  in  their  eyes,  only  an  evidence  of  his 
fitness,  and  the  choice  was  confirmed  by  the  civil  authority. 
The  stratagem  of  procuring  some  friendly  merchant  to 
carry  him  out  of  the  city  in  a  basket  was  less  fortunate 


GBEGORY  THE  GREAT.  129 

than  in  the  case  of  Saul  of  Tarsus,  and  he  was  discovered, 
brought  back  again,  and,  on  the  third  of  September,  con- 
secrated solemnly  to  the  office  of  the  Holy  See. 

The  duty  which  he  had  taken  up  most  unwillingly  he 
fulfilled  most  faithfully.  And  he  gave  to  the  clergy  and 
the  world  his  idea  of  duty  in  a  great  work  upon  the  Pas- 
toral Office.  This  admirable  work,  of  which  the  analysis 
even  would  occupy  a  lecture,  divided  as  it  was  into  four 
parts,  each  containing  almost  a  separate  treatise,  remained 
for  ages  a  classic  and  a  manual  for  pastors  in  the  Church. 
It  was  translated  into  Greek,  and  King  Alfred  loved  it  so 
well  that  he  had  rendered  it  into  the  Anglo-Saxon.  This 
treatise  abounds  with  wise  sayings,  which  have  passed  into 
maxims  and  are  settled  truths.  It  anticipates  the  wisdom 
of  subsequent  experience,  and  its  counsels  are  as  useful  for 
an  American  clergyman  of  the  nineteenth  century  as  they 
were  for  a  bishop  of  ancient  Rome.  The  youthful  pastor 
still  needs  to  be  admonished  that  the  souls  of  his  people 
are  more  to  be  cared  for  than  their  approval,  and  that  their 
final  salvation  is  of  more  consequence  than  their  present 
applause. 

For  thirteen  years  Gregory  exercised  the  power  of  a 
Roman  prelate.  And  all  historians  agree  that  these  thir- 
teen years  were  the  most  brilliant  of  Church  history  since 
the  days  of  the  Apostles.  They  saw  the  dominion  of  the 
Church  broadly  extended,  its  order  confirmed,  its  doc- 
trine revised,  its  discipline  systematized,  its  worship 
rounded  off  and  made  to  rival  the  most  splendid  cere- 
monies of  heathen  antiquity.  To  enumerate  the  various 
acts  that  Gregory  did  for  the  good  of  the  State  and  the 
Church  would  be  fatiguing.  We  need  only  behold  his  in- 
fluence in  the  several  more  important  spheres  of  action. 
For  his  influence  in  these  really  represents  to  us  what  were 
the  average  opinions  of  the  Christian  world  at  the  end  of 
the  sixth  century,  when  a  new  religion  broke  upon  the 
world,  and  Mohammed  appeared  as  the  prophet  of  God. 

And  first,  we  will  look  upon  his  doctrinal  position.  He 
was  a  strong  believer  in  the  double  sense  of  the  Scriptures. 
He  held  that  there  was  an  inner  and  an  outer  meaning, 
a  spirit  and  a  letter,  standing  towards  each  other  as  the 
porch  to  the  door.     The  multitude  are  permitted  to  stand 

9 


130  GREGORY  THE  GREAT. 

in  the  outer  court  and  to  read  the  words  of  the  Bible, 
to  learn  its  facts  and  histories,  but  the  wise  and  holy, 
by  means  of  allegory,  can  penetrate  its  sacred  recesses. 
It  is  thus  that  one  is  able  to  find  the  great  central  truths 
of  the  oneness  of  Christ  with  God  and  his  trinity  of  per- 
sons revealed  in  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Gregory  is  very 
honest  in  confessinsf  that  this  mystical  doctrine  comes 
out  of  the  allegorical  and  not  of  the  literal  sense  of  the 
Scriptures; — an  honesty  which  the  Oxford  divines  of  the 
present  day  are  entitled  to  share. 

The  general  theology  of  Gregory  is  that  which  Augus- 
tine taught  two  centuries  earlier.  But  his  theory  of  the 
human  will  is  different.  Gregory  was  what  is  called  a 
Semi-Pelagian,  —  i,  e.,  one  who  ascribes  the  conversion  of 
men  to  an  equal  and  contemporaneous  action  of  the  will 
of  man  and  the  grace  of  God.  He  was  too  devout  to 
attribute  all  the  work,  like  Pelagius,  to  the  first  agency, 
and  too  practical  to  attribute  it  all,  like  Augustine, 
to  the  last.  The  principal  addition  that  he  made  to  the 
sum  of  Christian  doctrine,  was  in  the  discovery  of  Purga- 
tory. What  the  earlier  fathers  had  only  dreamed  about, 
Gregory  actually  defined.  And  though  he  did  not  say 
whereabouts  in  space  the  singular  region  was  to  be  found, 
he  located  it  exactly  in  regard  to  the  time  of  each  man's 
life.  It  was  a  time  between  earth  and  heaven,  and  a 
region  wherein  disembodied  souls  should  walk  until  they 
were  prayed  into  Paradise  by  the  faithful. 

There  was  much  shrewdness  in  the  discover}^,  and  it 
tended  signally  to  enlarge  the  revenues  of  the  Church, 
But  Gregory  was  one  of  those  singularly  constituted  minds 
which  believe  in  their  own  impositions.  And  there  is  no 
doubt,  though  he  admitted  purgatory  to  be  a  profitable 
place,  a  sort  of  Christian  El  Dorado,  from  which  gold 
came  into  the  Church,  though  those  who  went  there  could 
not  get  back  again,  he  really  believed  in  it  as  a  fact. 
Indeed  he  defines  with  some  minuteness  the  kinds  of 
crimes  which  are  punished  there.  Unpardonable  sinners 
he  consigns  to  hell  at  once,  there  is  no  hope  of  them.  All 
the  prayers  of  all  the  faithful  cannot  get  an  obstinate 
heretic  out  of  hell,  for  he  has  blasphemed  the  Holy 
(jhost.     But  the  sins  which  merely  condemn  one  to  purga- 


GBEGORT  THE  GREAT.  131 

tory  are  idle  words,  immoderate  laughter,  mistakes  and 
blunders  of  all  kinds,  and  worldliness  in  general,  any- 
thing, in  fact,  which  does  not  indicate  positive  depravity 
of  heart,  but  only  depravity  of  habit.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  sound  philosophy  in  this  classification.  For  do  we 
not  all  feel,  and  are  we  not  warranted,  too,  by  Scripture, 
in  asserting,  that  there  is  hope  when  the  temptations  of 
earth  are  removed,  that  habits  here  contracted  will  tyrannize 
no  longer,  that  so  much  sin  as  is  external,  and  not  of  the 
heart  may  be  escaped  from  "i  The  soundest  reason  does 
indicate  to  us  a  kind  of  purgatorial  state,  in  which  the 
soul,  pure  in  its  essence  and  intention,  shall  cleanse  itself 
from  the  stains  contracted  in  its  earthly  sojourn.  But  for 
the  recovery  of  one  whose  soul  is  desperately  wicked  no 
purgatory  seems  to  be  so  pertinent.  We  should  probably 
differ  from  Gregory  in  not  assigning  to  obstinate  heresy  so 
conspicuous  a  place  in  hell. 

Immediatelv  connected  with  the  new  doctrine  of  Pursfa- 
tory,  which  Gregory  introduced,  was  that  prayer  for  the 
dead,  which  was  both  a  doctrine  and  a  ceremony.  He 
could  see  no  reason  why  prayers  for  the  salvation  of  the 
souls  in  limbo  were  not  as  proper  as  prayers  for  the  wel- 
fare of  men  during  their  earthly  probation.  In  either  case, 
it  was  a  supplication  that  God  would  carry  them  safely 
through  the  trial.  But  he  saw  even  a  superior  necessity  in 
case  of  the  dead.  For  prayers  were  the  only  kind  of  aid 
that  these  could  receive.  The  living  might  be  helped  by 
counsels  and  gifts.  But  no  other  than  an  earnest  supplica- 
tion could  be  brought  to  aid  the  dead.  He  makes  a  distinc- 
tion however  between  the  different  classes  of  the  dead ; 
and  tells  them  that  it  is  of  no  use  to  pray  either  for  very 
desperate  or  for  very  excellent  departed  spirits.  For  the 
former  cannot  be  benefitted  by  such  prayers,  and  the  latter 
do  not  need  them.  He  arranged  masses  for  the  dead 
accurately  in  regard  to  time  and  method.  Some  souls 
require  more  and  some  less ;  but  the  average  number 
of  daily  services  required  to  get  a  soul  out  of  Purgatory  is 
about  thirty.  And  this  has  become  the  standard  of  the 
Catholic  Church  in  its  prayers  for  the  dead.  When  any- 
body dies  now,  in  that  Church,  his  friends  and  relatives  are 
expected  to  say  mass  for  him,  —  or  to  hire  it  said,  —  for 


132  GREGORY  THE  GREAT. 

the  space  of  thirty  days.  It  is  a  cheap  way  for  some 
hardened  sinner  to  get  into  Paradise  to  engage  accommo- 
dating priests  thus  to  pray  him  in ;  and  many  are  the 
ample  legacies  which  have  been  left  for  this  end.  This 
discovery  of  Gregory  has  proved,  in  a  pecuniary  sense, 
more  profitable  than  any  gold  mine  could  have  been  to  the 
Church. 

Another  most  prominent  article  in  Gregory's  faith  was 
to  believe  in  miracles,  relics  and  amulets.  No  storv  was 
so  marvellous  that  he  would  not  take  it  in,  no  tradition, 
legend,  or  relic  so  uncertain,  that  it  did  not  become  holy 
to  him.  He  had  a  particular  love  for  any  memorial  of  the 
Apostle  Peter,  his  great  predecessor.  And  he  esteemed 
himself  highly  blessed  in  possessing  the  key  of  St.  Peter's 
tomb.  He  was  always  sending  this  round  when  any  signal 
cures  were  wished  for,  and  occasionally  would  accompany 
it  with  a  few  filins^s  from  St.  Peter's  fetters.  When  the 
Empress  Constantina  sent  to  him  the  modest  request  for 
the  head  or  a  portion  of  the  body  of  St.  Peter  for  the 
consecration  of  a  new  church  which  she  had  built,  he 
replied,  that  such  a  gift  was  out  of  his  power,  and  then 
relates  to  her  what  awful  prodigies  had  occurred  when 
they  attempted  to  take  the  silver  plate  from  the  bones  of 
the  saint. 

Gregory's  was  one  of  those  minds  that  take  naturally 
hold  of  every  form  of  superstition.  And  yet  he  was  not  a 
dogmatist  nor  a  merciless  persecutor.  Though  Orthodox 
enough  so  far  as  soundness  of  faith  was  concerned,  he  had 
not  the  spirit  of  a  bigot.  His  course  in  regard  to  the 
Jews,  for  instance,  was  very  much  in  contrast  with  the 
course  pursued  by  his  successors,  and  by  some,  too,  who 
went  before  him.  He  allowed  no  plunder,  no  outrage,  no 
exclusion  even  from  business  or  social  transactions,  of  this 
unfortunate  people.  They  were  permitted  by  him  to  keep 
their  synagogues  and  their  worship,  to  have  the  rights  of 
citizens,  their  oaths  were  received,  and  all  offences  of 
the  Christians  towards  them  were  punished  as  much  as 
offences  against  fellow-Christians.  Equally  just  and  toler- 
ant were  his  rules  with  regard  to  heathens  and  heretics. 
And  yet,  though  tolerant  towards  them,  Gregory  had  a 
flaming  zeal  for  the  conversion  of  all  these  classes  of 
unbelievers. 


GREGORY  THE  GREAT.  133 

If  he  thought  there  was  an}''  hope  of  this,  he  would  over- 
look some  questionable  methods  taken  to  bring  it  about. 
In  pious  transactions,  like  some  modern  religionists,  he 
believed  that  the  end  sanctified  the  means  ;  and  though 
he  would  not  allow  obstinate  unbelievers  to  be  maltreated, 
he  would  condescend  to  bribe  or  to  threaten  into  the  true 
faith  those  who  showed  signs  of  wavering.  He  thought 
that  it  was  a  laudable  way  of  spending  the  Church  reven- 
ues, to  conv^ert  lost  souls  to  the  Catholic  creed.  And  if 
he  could  not  get  the  fathers,  he  would  take  the  children. 
Many  youthful  Jews  and  heathen,  tempted  thus  by  the 
prospect  of  an  early  independence,  forsook  the  great 
Jehovah  and  the  gods  of  the  temple,  for  the  Triune  Head 
of  the  Christian  faith.  Gregory,  with  all  his  superstition, 
understood  human  nature  on  its  weaker  side. 

Let  us  look  now  at  the  ecclesiastical  position  of  Greg- 
ory in  regard  to  the  government  of  the  Church.  Gregory 
was  less  of  a  Pope  than  Leo,  but  more  of  a  priest.  He 
was  less  strenuous  about  the  power  of  his  Papal  seat  than 
for  its  comfort  and  order.  He  loved  to  talk  about  the 
Church  and  to  tell  its  blessing,  but  was  not  so  jealous  to 
contend  for  it.  He  was  proud  of  its  unity,  and  yet  de- 
lighted to  recognize  this  unity  as  a  regular  building  with 
four  side-walls,  as  he  called  the  four  great  patriarchates. 
He  disclaimed  for  himself  all  titles  of  authority  or  honor, 
and  did  not  like  to  have  him  obey  his  orders,  but  rather 
yield  to  his  suggestion.  He  writes  to  the  Patriarch  of 
Alexandria  :  "  In  rank  you  are  my  brother,  in  virtues 
my  father.  Why  then  do  you  say  that  I  command  you 
and  address  me  as  the  universal  Pope.  I  do  not  find  my 
honor  in  allowing  my  brethren  to  relinquish  theirs.  My 
honor  is  that  of  the  whole  Church.  And  when  any  one 
receives  his  fitting  dignity,  then  am  I  truly  honored. 
When  you  call  me  the  universal  Pope,  you  separate  my 
dignity  from  the  rest,  and  prevent  me  from  being  universal. 
Away  with  these  empty  words,  which  nourish  vanity,  and 
outrage  love."  Instead  of  Pope,  he  would  have  them  call 
him,  "  Servant  of  Servants." 

Yet  Gregory  was  not  willing  to  make  compromise  of  the 
rights  of  his  place.  He  felt  himself  to  be  by  this  the  first 
among  equals.     His  was  the  front   wall  of  the  building, 


134  GBEGORY  THE  GREAT. 

and  he  never  consented  to  any  assumptions  from  the  other 
quarters.  He  held  to  the  regular  pyramid  of  order  which 
Leo  had  finally  fixed,  and  was  as  truly  a  defender  of 
Peter's  supremacy  as  any  Pope.  He  differed  from  Leo  in 
the  breadth  of  his  view.  Leo's  doctrine  was  that  anything 
that  the  Pope  commanded  must  be  obeyed,  because  he 
was  the  head  of  the  Church,  and  had  its  authority.  Greg- 
ory, on  the  contrary,  thought  that  the  Church  was  the 
infallible  arbiter,  and  the  Pope  only  through  the  Church. 
Leo  believed  that  the  Pope  might  dictate  to  Councils. 
Gregory  held  that  Councils  should  dictate  to  the  Pope. 
So  too  in  regard  to  the  State.  He  would  keep  the  Church 
separate  from  the  civil  Power.  It  was  in  his  eyes  not  a 
government,  so  much  as  a  means  of  moral  and  religious 
culture  and  salvation.  He  maintained  its  order  rather  for 
the  efficacy  than  the  strength  which  this  would  give.  His 
idea  had  in  it  more  of  the  Gothic  splendor  and  mystery, 
exciting  devotion,  Leo's  more  of  Grecian  massiveness, 
excitinof  awe  and  submission.  The  one  strove  to  make  the 
Church  powerful,  the  other  to  make  it  attractive.  The  art 
of  the  one  was  that  of  the  ruler,  the  art  of  the  other  that 
of  the  priest.  Leo  loved  to  subdue  and  reign,  Gregory  to 
charm  and  captivate. 

And  the  contrast  between  them  then  is  strikingly  shown 
in  their  different  regard  for  all  that  pertained  to  the  per- 
sonal dignity  of  the  Pope.  "  It  has  been  usual,"  writes 
Gregory,  to  his  vicar  in  Sicily,  "for  the  bishops  to  come  to 
Rome  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Pope's  consecration.  Let 
a  stop  be  put  to  that.  I  have  no  pleasure  in  such  vain  and 
foolish  display.  If  they  wish  to  come  to  Rome,  let  it  be 
on  the  Feast-day  of  St.  Peter,  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles, 
by  whose  grace  they  are  ministers  of  God."  Leo  wel- 
comed and  rejoiced  in  personal  honors  as  adding  to  the 
dignity  of  his  station.  Gregory  would  have  none  of  them  ; 
rejected  presents  of  every  kind ;  and  sometimes,  when 
gifts  of  value  were  sent  back  to  him,  would  sell  them  and 
send  back  the  price  to  the  donor,  or,  if  he  were  not 
known,  would  give  this  for  some  charitable  purpose.  He 
had  no  love  of  showy  robes  for  ordinary  wear,  though  he 
loved  to  have  them  sufficiently  splendid  at  the  celebration 
of  the  Holy  Feast. 


GBEGOBY  THE  GREAT.  135 

Though  Gregory  lived  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  later 
than  Leo,  his  ecclesiastical  position  and  assumption  were 
not  really  so  high  as  that  of  the  great  Pope.  He  did  not, 
in  fact,  interest  himself  so  much  in  what  pertained  to  him- 
self and  his  office  as  in  what  pertained  to  the  Church  and 
its  influence  upon  the  world.  He  had  more  interest  in 
spreading  the  Church  abroad  than  in  concentrating  it 
at  home,  and  he  was  always  on  the  watch  to  see  what 
could  be  done  at  the  outposts.  In  pursuance  of  his  early 
design,  he  sent,  instead  of  an  army,  a  peaceful  company 
of  forty  monks  to  the  distant  isle  of  Britain.  And  he 
gained  through  them,  in  less  than  two  years,  a  more  signal 
victory  than  Caesar  had  ever  been  able  to  accomplish. 
The  king  of  Kent  and  two  thousand  of  his  Saxon  follow- 
ers embraced  the  Gospel.  To  appreciate  the  satisfaction 
of  Gregory  and  the  difficulty  of  the  work,  we  may  remem- 
ber that  the  relation  of  Britain  to  the  rest  of  the  world  was 
something  as  that  of  the  South  Sea  Islanders  to  us  now. 

Gregory  too  kept  an  eye  to  the  purity  of  doctrine  and 
discipline  among  the  priesthood.  He  was  tolerant  towards 
incorrigible  heretics,  but  he  would  not  have  any  heretics 
among  the  priests  or  the  monks.  He  commended,  as  he 
practised  before  them  the  virtues  of  an  ascetic  life.  And  es- 
pecially was  he  eminent  in  the  virtues  of  charity  and  alms- 
giving. In  his  time  the  revenues  of  the  Church  and  of  the 
Pope  had  reached  a  vast  sum.  Thousands  of  legacies  had 
been  left  for  pious  purposes,  and  the  faithful  without  num- 
ber who  had  embraced  a  monastic  life,  had  yielded  up 
their  possessions  to  the  Vicar  of  God.  Most  of  these 
revenues  were  faithfully  applied  to  religious  purposes,  and 
apart  from  the  amount  required  for  the  ritual,  vast  sums 
were  expended  in  giving  to  the  poor  and  sick  and  friend- 
less the  necessaries  of  life.  Every  day,  at  the  appointed 
hour,  came  crowds  of  mendicants  to  receive  their  stipend  ; 
and  it  was  a  sad,  though  beautiful  sight  to  see  matrons 
and  virgins,  and  men  too  of  noble  descent,  whom  the 
calamities  of  the  times  had  ruined,  thronging  to  the  palace 
which  had  been  built  by  their  ancestors'  gifts  to  receive 
from  a  holy  hand  these  gifts  again.  On  the  four  great 
festivals  of  the  year,  abundant  largesses  were  made.  The 
accounts  of  these  resemble  the  lavish  expenses  of  a 
Roman  triumph  or  a  royal  coronation. 


136  GBEGORT   THE   GREAT. 

To  manage  this  distribution  required  great  practical 
talent,  and  this  Gregory  had  in  an  eminent  degree.  He 
was  an  admirable  farmer  of  revenues,  and,  under  his 
management,  there  was  no  loss  of  any  interest.  Though 
he  gained  no  wealth  for  himself,  he  took  care  of  the  wealth 
of  the  Church.  He  did  not  disdain  to  care  for  the  small 
things  as  well  as  the  great.  Modern  Popes  have  boasted 
that  they  owned  and  could  exact  tribute  from  kingdoms. 
Gregory  did  not  disdain  to  look  after  farms  and  stores  and 
houses.  And  while  he  gave  corn  and  wine  to  the  poor,  he 
got  rents  from  many  tenants  among  the  rich.  This  is  the 
reverse  side  of  his  superstitious  character.  The  same 
man  who  could  send  to  the  Empress  a  piece  of  the  sacred 
linen  which  had  touched  the  bones  of  Peter,  as  if  its  holv 
alchemv  would  create  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  beheld  it 
the  fine  gold  of  the  spirit,  knew  also  how  to  make  his 
farms  yield  their  increase,  and  to  coin  the  gold  which  per- 
isheth  out  of  his  earthly  possessions.  I  have  observed 
that  to  be  true  of  the  fanatics  and  the  credulous  generally. 

But  the  most  important  influence  of  Gregory  was  that 
which  he  had  upon  the  ritual  and  the  music  of  the  Church. 
His  superstitious  tendency  led  him  to  make  very  much  of 
symbols.  And  while  he  forbade  the  worship  of  these,  he 
heartily  commended  their  use.  He  would  have  the  Sanc- 
tuary well-adorned ;  and  he  loved  that  imposing  service 
which  seemed  to  cast  a  spiritual  awe,  and  trembling 
wonder  upon  the  senses  of  believers.  He  loved  anything 
that  would  increase  the  objects  and  the  strength  of  faith. 
Gregory  may  be  said  to  be  truly  the  Father  of  the  Catholic 
mass.  This  stood  in  his  view  in  the  same  relation  to  the 
ordinary  prayers  and  services  that  the  Pope  did,  in  the 
view  of  Leo,  to  ordinary  priests  or  bishops.  It  was  the 
crowning  act  of  devotion. 

Before  the  time  of  Gregory,  the  services  of  the  temple 
were  divided  variously  among  the  choir,  the  congregation, 
and  the  priests.  But  he  systematized  the  whole,  and 
ordered  just  how  much  should  be  done  by  each  party,  and 
what  portions,  how  much  spoken,  how  much  sung,  where 
they  should  kneel,  where  rise,  and  where  be  prostrate. 
The  share  of  the  people,  small  at  the  beginning,  soon 
became    smaller    by    the    introduction    of    double    choirs, 


GREGORY  THE  GREAT.  137 

which  took  all  the  parts  assigned  to  the  people,  so  that 
they  had  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  change  their  position. 
They  could  not  even  say  "  amen,"  and  could  only  kneel 
their  assent. 

The  Liturgical  service  which  Gregory  gave  to  the 
Church  continued  to  be  the  standard  for  manv  centuries. 
In  the  eleventh  centurv  it  was  substantiallv  the  form  in 
the  Churches  of  Italy,  Germany,  England,  France  and 
Spain.  And  his  care  extended  too  to  the  order  of  the 
mass  on  the  festival  days  as  well  as  Sundays.  Each  day 
of  Holy  Week  had  its  appropriate  service.  Gregory  how- 
ever did  not  make  this  liturgy  obligatory  on  the  different 
churches,  but  left  them  free  to  modify  it  in  particulars,  if 
they  would  only  retain  its  essential  features. 

To  church  music  Gregory  rendered  the  most  important 
and  lasting  service.  He  marks  the  second  epoch  in  the 
history  of  this  branch  of  art.  The  music  at  the  time  of 
Ambrose  admitted  only  four  tones,  what  are  now  called 
the  first,  second,  third  and  fifth,  and  was  merely  a  succes- 
sion of  changes  on  these  four  tones.  Of  course,  the 
number  of  combinations  of  these  were  small,  and  the 
tunes  had  a  great  and  not  very  musical  sameness.  No 
doubt  there  was  real  music  which  brought  in  other  tones, 
for  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  vocal  organs  of  men 
then  could  make  the  various  sounds  in  the  compass  of  a 
human  voice  less  naturally  than  now.  But  the  science  of 
written  church  music  extended  only  to  these  four  tones. 
The  familiar  tune  called  Peterboro'  in  our  books  is  proba- 
bly a  very  lively  specimen  of  the  Ambrosian  chant.  The 
music  was  not  by  notes,  but  by  figures,  and  the  only  variety 
of  time  is  that  which  the  rhythm  of  the  song  seems  to 
suggest.  A  long  syllable  would  be  sung  in  twice  the  time 
of  a  short  one.  And  the  system  altogether  was  something 
like  the  reading  of  the  Hebrews,  in  which  there  was  no 
vowel,  but  every  man  formed  the  vowel  sound  according 
to  the  position  of  the  consonants  in  each  word.  We 
would  probably  think  it  somewhat  of  a  penance  to  hear  a 
few  hymns  in  this  stinted  measure  of  tone.  But  this  was 
no  doubt  a  great  treat  in  the  day  when  there  was  no  more 
to  be  had. 

The   chant    which    Gregory   introduced  in  the    Church 


138  GREGORY   THE   GREAT. 

though  less  melodious  than  the  Ambrosian,  had  the  higher 
element  of  a  full  harmony.  He  completed  the  octave, 
and  of  course  immensely  increased  the  number  of  combi- 
nations. By  writing  too  the  notes  with  separate  charac- 
ters and  not  by  numbers,  he  made  music  independent  of 
the  poetry  or  rhythm  of  the  Church  song,  and  they  could 
apply  it  to  prose  as  well  as  to  poetry.  To  separate  too 
sacred  music  from  profane,  in  which  there  was  then  as 
there  always  will  be,  great  lightness  and  constant  variety, 
(jregory  had  all  the  chants  written  in  notes  of  equal 
length.  This  sometimes  had  a  curious  effect  when  they 
were  called  to  sing  songs  of  praise,  anthems  and  hallelujahs. 
These  might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for  burial  songs. 
But  Gregory  had  not  a  very  nice  ear,  and  he  loved  to 
recosfnize  in  everv  service  a  difference  between  the  sonars  of 
the  sanctuary  and  those  of  the  theatre  or  the  street.  This 
chant  of  equal  notes  had  at  least  great  dignity  and 
solemnity,  and  checked  every  irreverent  feeling.  Unless 
it  had  some  real  power  within  it,  it  would  not  have 
kept  its  place  so  long  in  the  worship  of  the  Church.  It 
has  been  conjectured  that  these  notes  of  equal  length  were 
made  so  for  the  sake  of  imitating  the  natural  simplicity  of 
the  speech  of  men,  since  originally  all  words  consisted 
of  one  short  syllable.  The  Hebrew  for  instance,  contains 
hardly  a  word  that  cannot  be  reduced  to  three  radical 
letters.  If  there  are  ten  letters  in  a  Hebrew  word  and 
you  can  guess  out  the  three  original  letters  and  find  their 
meaning,  you  will  find  the  meaning  of  the  whole  word. 
This  music  of  the  Gregorian  chant  too  has  a  highly  com- 
prehensive character.  It  not  only  seeks  to  imitate  the 
early  speech  of  men,  but  it  adapts  itself  to  the  progress 
of  speech  and  culture.  Being  independent  of  rhythm,  it 
can  be  applied  to  any  poetry,  and  by  a  slight  change  in 
arrangement  made  to  suit  any  language.  It  will  fall  in 
best  with  old  Latin  words  that  were  joined  to  it  in  the 
liturgy,  and  some  parts  of  it  now  are  used  with  these  in 
the  Catholic  churches.  But  the  soft  Italian,  the  guttural 
German,  and  even  our  grating  English  will  accept  its 
measured  flow.  You  will  find  in  our  Books  of  Tunes, 
especially  in  the  older  books,  several  that  are  arranged 
from  the  old  Gregorian  chant.     Some   of  these  are  very 


GBEGORT  TUB  GBEAT.  139 

familiar  and  are  used  in  all  conference  meetinofs,  —  such 
tunes  as  Hamburg,  Shawmut,  Olmutz,  Milan  and  Ghent. 
And  many  of  the  tunes  attributed  to  Martin  Luther  are 
borrowed  by  him  from  this  majestic  original. 

Gregory  did  not  confine  his  musical  improvements  to 
changes  in  the  science.  He  also  made  many  and  import- 
ant changes  in  the  practice.  He  established  at  Rome 
the  first  singing  school  of  which  we  have  any  record  in 
Christian  history.  And  this  was  not  on  the  small  scale  of 
such  establishments  in  our  day,  but  was  rather  a  great 
univ^ersity  of  music,  from  which  the  directors  and  per- 
formers in  choirs  all  over  the  Western  Church  were 
graduated.  This  singing  school,  though  the  earliest,  and 
coming  up  at  a  time  when  the  most  barbarous  customs 
prevailed  in  regard  to  a  discipline  of  the  voice,  adopted 
only  natural  methods.  It  would  be  interesting  to  dwell 
on  the  form  of  instruction  within  it,  but  very  little  has 
been  left  us  in  regard  to  this. 

Greo^orv  however  had  restrictions  as  to  admission  into 
this  school.  He  would  not  have  any  priests  or  deacons  in 
it.  He  said  that  their  business  was  to  preach  and  pray 
and  help  the  poor,  and  that  others  could  do  the  singing. 
He  would  not  have  either  any  of  bad  character  in  his 
school  or  in  his  choirs.  He  desired  that  a  soft  voice  for 
the  sacred  office  should  go  accompanied  with  a  righteous 
life,  and  that  the  spiritual  singer,  while  fascinating  the 
people  with  his  tones,  should  charm  God  by  his  virtues. 
Lamentably  did  the  Church  in  later  days  fall  off  from 
his  example. 

Gregory,  like  Ambrose,  enriched  the  church  with  hymns 
of  his  own  writing,  as  well  as  with  chants  and  music. 
There  are  eight  hymns  remaining  which  are  ascribed  to 
him.  Six  of  these  are  written  in  the  regular  rhyming 
style  of  ecclesiastical  Latin,  but  the  other  two  in  the 
genuine  Sapphic  and  Adonian  stanza  of  the  old  Latin 
poets.  They  are  all  adapted  to  some  peculiar  festival  of 
the  Church.  The  most  beautiful  is  the  Hymn  to  the 
Supper. 

I.  —  O  Sovereign  Lord  of  Majesty! 

O  Saviour  Christ,  —  we  call  on  thee  ! 
Thine  ear  in  pity  opened  be  1 
Thine  eye  our  penitence  to  seel 


140  GREGORY   THE   GREAT. 


2.  —  We  pray  by  thy  redeeming  cross, 

Thy  boundless  love,  that  bore  such  loss, 
Thy  bleeding  wounds  whose  crimson  flow, 
Did  cleanse  the  flood  of  Adam's  woe. 

3.  —  Thy  glorious  way  was  with  the  stars. 

Yet  wearest  thou  here  the  dust  and  scars, 
Did'st  share  our  anguish,  dare  our  strife, 
To  leave  to  man  Eternal  Life. 

4.  —  The  dying  world  in  darkness  lay, 

Thv  death  its  darkness  warned  awav. 
From  shame  and  sorrow  man  didst  save, 
For  sin  the  full  Atonement  gave. 

5.  —  They  nailed  thee  to  the  fatal  tree, 

They  heard  thy  cry  of  agony. 

Earth  shook,  and  midnight  veiled  the  sun, 

The  last  redeeming  woik  was  done. 

6.  —  Now  gloriously  in  light  on  high 

Thou  wear'st  the  robe  of  victory. 
While  we  thy  cross  and  victory  sing, 
Send  down  thy  spirit,  Christ  our  King. 

It  is  impossible  to  render  this  hymn  into  a  spirited  ver- 
sion on  account  of  the  sameness  of  sentiment  in  each 
stanza.  We  will  try  the  short  morning  song,  which  has 
more  vivacity. 

1.  —  We  wake  to  praise  at  the  early  call. 

We  hail  with  rapture  the  breaking  light. 
And  sing  of  the  care  which  has  kept  us  all 
Through  the  fearful  night. 

2.  —  The  peace  of  the  saints  in  their  heavenly  home, 

The  purer  joys  of  the  land  of  the  blest, 
Mav  we  share  on  earth,  till  at  last  we  come 
To  eternal  rest. 

3.  —  Let  the  Father  and  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost, 

Mysterious  Three,  whose  grace  faileth  never, 
Unite  our  souls  to  the  heavenly  host 
Now  and  forever. 

We  need  not  dwell  long  upon  the  characteristics  of 
Gregory.  He  is  one  of  those  personages  whose  greatness 
and  eminence  we  admit,  yet  in  whom  we  feel  there  is 
something  wanting ;  one  of  those  whose  characters  run  in 
a  narrow  stream,  though  in  that  channel  they  are  deep 


GREGORY  THE  GREAT.  141 

and  rapid.  We  have  for  such  a  character  a  mingled 
feeling  of  pity  and  admiration.  We  respect  its  moral 
excellence  while  we  compassionate  its  intellectual  defect. 
In  heart,  purpose,  and  life,  Gregory  was  one  of  the  purest 
men  who  ever  sat  upon  the  Papal  throne.  He  was 
humane,  charitable,  and  disinterested.  And  yet  he  gave 
his  sanction  to  practices,  and  introduced  customs  into  the 
Church  which  corrupted  it  beyond  all  measure.  He  was  a 
heavenly-minded  prelate,  yet  he  borrowed  all  the  arts  of 
the  world  for  his  devotion.  Those  who  did  not  know  the 
man,  but  judged  him  only  by  his  schemes  and  operations 
would  set  him  down  as  a  cunning,  ambitious,  and  un- 
scrupulous ruler.  Those  who  were  his  friends  forgot 
wholly  his  methods  and  his  works,  in  the  beauty  of  his 
life  and  the  sincerity  of  his  piety.  The  Roman  priesthood 
saw  in  him  only  an  humble  monk.  The  patriarch  of 
Constantinople  feared  in  him  a  haughty  rival  and  master. 
Gregory  had  been  an  invalid  his  life  long.  And  his 
Pontificate,  which  he  assumed  at  the  mature  age  of  fifty, 
was  not  destined  to  be  of  great  duration.  On  the  twelfth 
of  March,  604,  the  day  on  which  Catholics  keep  his  festival, 
he  expired,  after  having  filled  the  Papal  Chair  thirteen  years, 
six  months  and  ten  days.  No  miracles  attended  his  death 
and  he  passed  away  as  quietly  as  if  he  were  a  common 
man.  But  he  left  a  blessed  memory.  And  the  title  of 
the  Great,  which  he  earned  during  his  life,  was  added  to 
his  name  when  no  new  mortal  honor  could  adorn  it.  We 
can  form  a  fair  idea  of  his  personal  appearance  from  the 
rare  relic  of  a  family  portrait,  in  which  he  is  represented 
with  his  father  and  mother,  and  which  was  preserved  for 
several  centuries  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Andrew.  It  is 
valuable  as  a  specimen  of  the  painting  of  that  epoch.  It 
represents  Gregory  as  a  tall,  lank  figure,  with  long  features, 
a  bald  crown,  high  forehead,  and  hooked  nose  ;  altogether, 
as  one  biographer  remarks,  an  imposing  personage.  The 
remains  of  Gregory  rest  in  the  Vatican,  and  his  relics, 
such  as  his  cloak,  his  girdle  and  other  things,  which  be- 
longed to  him,  were  kept  many  years  after  his  death  by 
the  faithful,  and  did  some  marvelous  works.  His  bed  and 
cloak  are  still  kept  in  the  Lateran.  So  says  his  Catholic 
biographer.     For  Gregory,   like    Augustine  and   Cyprian, 


142  GREGORY  THE  GREAT. 


was  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  Boswell  in  an  admiring 
deacon,  who  has  preserved  all  the  traditions  about  him. 

Tlie  writings  of  Gregory,  tliough  less  numerous,  and  far 
less  valuable  than  those  of  the  other  great  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  are  the  most  numerous  that  any  Pope  has  given 
to  the  world.  He  left  a  great  many  sermons  and  some 
commentaries.  His  exposition  of  Job  is  in  sixty-five 
books.  He  treats  it  as  an  allegory.  There  are  forty  homi- 
lies upon  the  Gospels  and  twenty-two  upon  the  Epistles. 
Of  his  great  work  on  the  Pastoral  Care,  we  have  spoken 
already.  It  was  translated  into  Latin  and  Greek,  and  it 
was  made  afterward  a  duty  of  the  bishops  to  read  it  as 
part  of  their  necessary  training.  In  his  four  books  of 
Dialogues,  which  show  his  weak  side,  Gregory  gives  an 
account  of  all  the  miracles  and  absurd  stories  about  the 
fathers  which  had  come  to  his  knowleds^e.  Then  there 
are  fourteen  books  of  letters,  8io  in  the  whole,  arranged 
by  Gregory  himself  in  chronological  order,  to  persons  of 
all  ranks  and  classes, — emperors,  kings,  bishops,  abbots, 
priests,  deacons,  nobles,  generals,  senators,  judges, 
pious  damsels,  and  respectable  matrons,  and  even  to 
slaves.  And  lastly  there  is  the  Sacramentaria  and 
Antiphonaria,  in  which  the  whole  revised  order  of  the 
Church  Liturgy  and  music  is  contained.  This  is  a  gigantic 
work  ;  and  it  gave  rise  to  Gibbon's  sneer  that  the  abridged 
service  of  the  Catholic  Church  by  Gregory,  contains  880 
folio  pages,  while  the  Lord's  Prayer  contains  only  half 
a  dozen  lines. 

The  style  of  Gregory  is  barbarous,  and  stands  on  the 
limit  of  the  brazen  age  of  Latin  literature.  He  knew 
nothing  about  Greek,  and  hated  the  classics.  As  for 
Hebrew,  no  one  knew  anything  about  that  in  his  time. 
He  prized  his  own  writings  at  a  low  rate,  and  always  ob- 
jected to  their  being  used  as  text-books  in  the  Church. 
P>ut  they  were,  nevertheless,  and  they  still  exert  favorable 
influence.  It  was  a  sad  falling  off  from  the  smooth 
periods  of  Augustine  to  the  homely  and  crude  sentences 
of  Gregory.  And  henceforth  until  the  time  of  the  school- 
men, the  monkish  Latin  became  an  unintelligible  jargon. 

The  influence  of  Gregory  upon  the  Church  is  thus 
summed  up  by  a  German  writer:    "Gregory,  the  moral 


GBEGOllY   THE  GREAT.  143 

Reformer  of  his  time,  stands  at  the  end  of  the  ancient 
Church  which  culminated  at  the  time  of  Leo  in  its  out- 
ward form.  Gregory  brought  together  and  arranged  all 
that  the  Latin  Church  had  given  him  in  dogma,  order  and 
life,  and  completed  this  and  prepared  it  for  the  future  by- 
establishing  its  cultus  and  form  of  worship.  This  is  his 
positive  influence.  But  he  thus  opened  the  way  for  the 
new  Church  by  bringing  the  German  nations  into  this  form, 
and  thus  the  key-stone  of  the  ancient  structure  became 
the  corner-stone  of  a  new  and  world-wide  spiritual  empire." 
It  is  a  singular  fact  that  he  was  the  last  Pope  who  has 
been  made  a  Saint. 


144  MOHAMMED. 


V. 

MOHAMMED    AND    HIS    RELIGION. 

Arabia  has  been  called  the  cradle  of  the  human  race. 
And  this  is  true,  not  merely  as  a  historical  fact,  but  morally 
and  spiritually.  Somewhere  within  its  ancient  borders  the 
tradition  of  all  the  Western  world  has  placed  the  primitive 
Eden.  All  the  finest  leg-ends  of  infancy  cluster  there. 
The  most  touching  narratives,  sacred  or  profane,  to  the 
curious  imasfination  of  childhood  belong-  to  the  Arabian 
land.  The  earliest  associations  of  beauty  and  mystery,  of 
luxury,  wildness  or  terror,  of  wickedness  and  piety,  of 
skill  and  inspiration,  all  centre  there.  The  recollections 
of  our  early  days  are  strangely  grouped  around  this  singu- 
lar land.  We  think  of  it  as  Arabia  the  Happy,  where  the 
air  is  fragrant  with  aloes,  and  myrrh,  and  frankincense, 
and  every  grove  is  a  Paradise  full  of  sweet  waters,  and  of 
singing  birds  and  laden  boughs ;  or  as  Arabia  the  Rocky, 
where  God  appears  in  his  majesty,  and  there  are  gloomy 
caverns  and  rushing  torrents,  and  awful  thunderings  ; 
where  Seir,  and  Hor,  and  Sinai,  and  Horeb,  and  Pisgah 
lift  their  frowning  sum.mits  ;  or  as  Arabia  the  Desert, 
where  the  laden  camel  and  the  long  caravan  plod  on  their 
silent  march  over  the  hot  sand,  and  the  blast  of  death  is 
whirling,  and  there  is  no  water,  nor  food,  nor  path,  nor 
hope.  The  genii,  too,  and  fairies,  the  mystic  lamps,  the 
precious  diamonds  and  pearls,  the  enchanted  cities  of  our 
early  days,  —  the  things  which  we  were  wont  to  dream 
over,  belong  to  this  land.  The  spiritual  proverbs,  the 
images  of  splendor,  of  loveliness,  of  faith,  and  of  pa- 
tience all  belong  there.  There  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
•  reigned.  There  the  patriarchs  gathered  their  clans,  there 
Job  suffered  and  disputed,  there  Moses  wandered  with  his 
people,  there  God  communicated  with  men,  and  gave  upon 
the  mountain  his  eternal  commandments. 


MOHAMMED.  145 


Arabia  is  the  cradle  of  the  race,  because  it  has  joined 
to  it  those  associations  which  are  supernatural  and  spiritual 
in  their  character,  —  because  it  is  a  poetical  land  and  sup- 
plies visions  and  fancies  to  that  faculty  of  the  soul  which 
never  grows  old.  We  feel  all  the  vivacity  and  buoyancy 
of  childhood  when  we  go  back  to  its  literature  and  legends. 
Even  the  long  waste  of  the  Koran,  the  Bible  of  Arabia, 
diy  and  dreary  as  its  desert,  does  not  prevent  the  childish 
fancies  which  crowd  in  our  minds  as  we  wander  on  through 
its  pages.  There  is  a  freshness  in  the  very  thought  of 
the  land.  It  is  in  exact  contrast  with  that  sepulchral  re- 
gion on  the  other  shore  of  the  Red  Sea,  where  even  Nature 
seems  decrepit,  and  all  is  old  and  solemn  and  death-like, 
■where  we  think  of  life  and  religion  as  among  the  tombs, 
and  not  in  the  gardens.  No  enthusiastic  description  of  the 
beauty  of  the  Nile  around  Thebes  can  make  the  idea  of 
that  place  anything  but  desert,  and  melancholy,  and  still ; 
it  is  the  ruins  that  we  see.  No  account  of  the  desert 
around  Mecca,  no  description  of  its  annoyances,  its 
brackish  pools  and  its  filthy  streets,  can  make  it  seem  any 
thing  else  but  bright,  and  new,  and  beautiful.  You  feel  at 
Thebes,  if  there  are  spirits  they  are  watching  and  weeping 
in  marble  silence,  like  Niobe  in  her  woe.  You  feel  at 
Mecca  that  the  spirits  are  exulting  and  joyous,  like 
Nourmahal  and  the  Peri. 

In  the  permanent  character  of  their  institutions,  in  their 
preservation  of  the  most  ancient  type  of  the  pastoral 
life,  in  their  love  for  literature  and  the  arts,  and  in  the 
eclectic  character  of  their  idolatry,  the  Arabs  bear  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  Chinese.  It  is  singular  that  on  each 
corner  of  the  great  Asiatic  Continent,  should  be  found  a 
people  wholly  uninfluenced  by  the  civilizing  influences  of 
other  nations.  Arabian  customs  and  laws  are  anterior  to 
all  authentic  history.  The  habits  of  the  Bedouin  of  the 
Desert  are  the  same  now  as  in  the  days  of  Abraham  and 
the  Patriarchs.  The  characteristic  virtues  are  the  same. 
The  stranger  who  may  be  plundered  and  slain  to-morrow 
will  be  served  to-day  and  loaded  with  gifts  from  the  same 
hand.  Their  wealth,  their  pleasures,  their  ambijion,  are 
all  just  what  they  were  when  Job  was  an  Arab  emir. 
Even  their  faith,  though  its  name  was  changed  with  the 
10 


146  MOHAMMED, 


rise  of  God's  new  prophet,  of  whom  we  shall  presently 
speak,  retained  many  of  its  most  ancient  features.  Its 
sacred  places,  seasons,  services,  and  tenets  are  still  pre- 
served ;  and  the  Mussulman  of  to-day  worships  in  the 
same  way  and  on  the  same  spot  to  which  Arab  pilgrims 
journeyed  before  Christ  was  born.  Mecca,  as  a  Holy 
City,  is  at  least  as  old  as  Jerusalem.  And  the  sacred 
well,  Zemzem,  was  sung  by  poets  before  the  voice  of  music 
had  celebrated  the  gentle  flow  of  Siloa's  brook.  The  un- 
conquered  tribes  there  continued  to  go  up  yearly  to  their 
temple,  when  the  children  of  Israel  were  prostrated  and 
scattered  ;  and  they  could  boast  that  none  of  their  holy 
vessels  became  the  spoil  of  a  foreign  foe.  The  people 
were  invincible,  and  nature  had  made  their  fortresses 
secure.  The  victorious  army  of  Augustus  melted  away 
when  it  invaded  the  land  of  the  Arab. 

We  need  not  go  here  into  an  analysis  of  the  Arabian 
character.  The  Koran  is  the  best  guide  to  this,  since 
Mohammed  was  wise  enough  to  frame  his  directions  ac- 
cording to  the  fixed  tendencies  of  his  nation.  The  religion 
of  Islamism,  unlike  that  of  Judaism,  was  an  uttering  of 
customs  and  laws,  already  long  established.  Moses  pro- 
claimed a  new  law.  But  Mohammed  only  uttered  and 
condensed  laws  that  for  thousands  of  years  had  silently 
bound  the  people,  adding  what  of  good  he  could  find  in 
Judaism  and  Christianity.  His  work  was  no  inspired 
original  creation. 

At  the  time  of  Mohammed's  appearing,  the  Arabs  were 
still  substantially  idolaters,  and  their  religion  must  be 
classed  with  other  Pagan  superstitions.  Yet  their  idolatry 
was  of  an  elevated  and  poetic  cast.  It  made  gods  of  the 
stars  and  the  sun,  and  rejected  things  carved  by  man's 
device.  Guided  by  these  steady  and  mysterious  deities, 
the  Arab  had  learned  to  traverse  his  vast  plains  of  barren 
sand,  and  he  was  cheered  by  their  beams  on  the  lonely 
mountain-top.  They  were  fitting  and  natural  objects  of 
his  worship.  And  though  as  Mecca  became  celebrated, 
grosser  kinds  of  idolatry  found  place  within  the  sacred 
precincts  of  the  temple,  still  this  first  worship  of  the 
celestial  bodies  remained  the  substantial  type  of  the 
Arabian   Paganism,   and   the  black  stone  survived  all  the 


MOHAMMED.  147 


other  ornaments  of  the  Caaba,  from  the  belief  that  this 
had  miraculously  fallen  from  heaven.  Mohammed  might 
break  the  other  idols  of  his  people,  but  could  not  abolish 
this.  The  Moslem  of  to-day  kisses  it  with  the  same  rever- 
ence as  the  Hashemites  when  Mohammed  was  unborn. 
This  refined  idolatry,  however,  did  not  prevent  the 
grossest  practices.  The  lives  of  men  were  sacrificed  to 
propitiate  the  stars.  But  the  breaking  up  of  the  Eastern 
nations  by  Grecian  and  Roman  conquests  drove  the  fugi- 
tives of  many  lands  into  the  free  and  hospitable  territory 
of  Arabia.  The  Magi  of  Persia  brought  the  Sabian  wor- 
ship, which  agreed  quite  nearly  with  the  idolatry  of  the 
native  tribes.  The  Jews,  driven  in  numbers  from  Pales- 
tine by  the  fall  of  their  country  and  their  temple,  found 
an  asylum  in  the  land  which  had  sheltered  their  fathers, 
and  in  process  of  time  engrafted  many  of  their  religious 
practices  upon  the  Arabian  ritual.  The  Christians,  too, 
had  their  missionaries  there,  and  had  made  large  numbers 
of  converts.  The  Christian  sacred  books  were  read  in 
the  beautiful  Arab  tongue,  and  the  Christian  proselytes 
were  the  most  zealous  if  they  were  not  the  most  numerous 
of  all  the  Arab  sectaries.  In  the  western  region,  no  man 
of  culture,  whatever  his  faith,  could  fail  to  be  without 
some  knowledge  of  Christianity.  It  has  been  a  question 
much  discussed  whether  Mohammed  were  a  Christian 
before  he  declared  his  new  religion.  But  it  is  certain  that 
he  was  acquainted  with  Christianity  and  its  principles. 

The  Christianity  of  Arabia,  however,  was  never  in  very 
good  repute  with  the  Catholic  Church.  The  romantic 
spirit  of  that  region  made  it  the  fruitful  mother  of  heresies. 
There  were  plenty  of  sects,  and  some  of  them  held  to 
extraordinary  tenets.  One  denied  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  Another  worshipped  the  Virgin  Mary  as  God,  and 
made  her  the  third  person  in  the  Trinity.  And  we  cannot 
wonder  that  where  such  absurdities  were  rife,  a  zealot 
like  Mohammed  should  try  to  improve  upon  the  religion 
that  authorized  them.  Where  there  were  so  many  sects 
and  so  many  religions,  and  where  all  seemed  to  be  a  mix- 
ture of  truth  and  falsehood  it  was  natural  that  some  man 
of  genius  should  try  to  construct  a  new  order  out  of  the 
confusion. 


14S  MOHAMMED. 


The  tribe  of  Koreish  had  long  been  the  chief  of  the 
Arabian  clans.  They  were  the  hereditary  possessors 
of  Mecca,  and  were  equally  remarkable  for  their  valor  in 
battle,  their  skill  in  judgment,  and  their  fidelity  in  religion. 
One  of  this  tribe,  Hashem,  obtained  the  charge  of  the 
Caaba,  or  temple,  and  became  thereby  the  spiritual  Lord 
of  all  x^rabia.  The  renown  of  Hashem  was  eclipsed  by 
that  of  his  son,  Abdel  Motalleb,  whose  prowess  and  up- 
rightness were  bountifully  rewarded  in  a  life  of  one  hundred 
and  ten  years,  and  a  family  of  thirteen  sons  and  six 
daughters.  The  eldest  of  these  sons,  Abdallah,  is  sung 
by  Arabian  poets  as  fairest  of  all  their  young  men ; 
and  on  the  night  of  his  marriage  two  hundred  damsels  are 
said  to  have  died  in  despair.  The  wife  that  Abdallah 
chose  was  of  the  same  noble  origin  as  himself.  And  in 
the  birth  of  their  only  son  the  lordship  and  romance  of 
the  nation  seemed  all  to  be  centered.  Without  recounting 
the  prodigies  that  piety  has  attached  to  this  birth,  we  need 
not  wonder  that  it  was  classed  as  a  special  Providence. 
For  the  death  of  Justinian  had  just  freed  the  tribes  from 
the  fear  of  any  new  Roman  invasion,  and  the  Abyssinians 
had  been  repulsed  effectually  from  their  impious  invasion 
of  the  sacred  citv.  If  the  Christian  seems  to  find  that  the 
birth  of  Jesus  in  Bethlehem  of  Judea,  of  the  royal  line  of 
David,  was  in  the  fullness  of  time,  so  the  Moslem  finds  in 
the  birth  of  Mohammed  in  Mecca  of  Arabia,  of  the 
princely  tribe  of  Koreish,  a  special  divine  appointment. 
This  birth  was  about  the  year  a.  d.  570. 

Of  the  many  prodigies  related  of  Mohammed's  infancy, 
one  deserves  to  be  recorded, — that  two  angels  took  the 
child  from  his  nurse's  arms,  and  tearing  out  his  heart 
squeezed  from  it  the  black  drop,  which  is  the  cause  of  all 
sinful  desires  and  the  seat  of  sin,  and  thus  made  him  like 
Jesus  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  alone  of  all  mortals  were 
born  without  the  black  drop.  The  heart  was  restored 
again,  pure.  But  we  may  find  cause  to  think  that  the 
whole  of  the  drop  was  not  pressed  out. 

The  parents  and  grandfather  of  Mohammed  died  while 
he  was  in  infancy,  and  left  him  to  the  especial  charge  of 
his  eldest  uncle,  Abu  Taleb.  By  this  man  he  was  brought 
up    with   great   care,  and    allowed  many  privileges.     His 


MOHAMMED.  149 


uncle  was  a  merchant  and  made  journeys  to  E^^^ypt,  and 
Persia,  and  Syria,  for  the  sale  of  his  wares.  On  these 
journeys  Mohammed  learned  more  than  the  tricks  of  trade 
and  the  customs  of  the  people.  He  was  constantly  gain- 
ing an  insight  into  the  faith  of  these  various  nations.  At 
the  age  of  fourteen  he  took  part  in  the  war  of  the 
Koreishites,  which  was  reckoned  infamous,  because  waged 
in  an  unlawful  month.  This  shows  that  he  was  not  taught 
to  be  over-strict  in  his  religious  observances.  Not  much 
is  authentic  in  his  history  until  his  marriage  with  Kadijah, 
a  rich  widow  of  two  husbands,  who  first  took  him  under 
her  patronage,  and  then  made  him  her  master.  The 
twenty  years  difference  in  their  ages  did  not  stand  much 
in  his  way.  He  became  by  the  connection  too  rich  and 
important  to  be  troubled  by  scandals ;  and  he  found  in 
Kadijah  all  that  his  heart  could  desire.  For  thirteen 
years  he  led  a  quiet,  domestic  life,  broken  occasionally  by 
some  days  of  riotins^,  but  in  the  main  decent,  industrious 
and  comfortable.  He  sacrificed  to  the  gods,  while  he 
became  familiar  with  the  views  of  the  Jews  and  Christians. 
And,  as  his  uncle  seemed  obstinately  determined  to  live, 
his  own  course  seemed  likely  to  pass  without  special  dis- 
tinction. But  he  was  ambitious,  and  if  he  could  not  be  a 
ruler,  he  determined  to  be  a  prophet. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-eight  the  first  indication  of  this  new 
dignity  appeared.  In  Mount  Hara,  near  Mecca,  was  a 
cave,  to  which  Mohammed  was  accustomed  constantly  to 
resort.  Here,  piece  by  piece,  the  Koran  was  composed. 
The  prophet  himself  could  not  read  or  write.  But  the 
tradition  is  that  a  Persian  Jew  and  a  Nestorian  Monk  were 
the  amanuenses  who  recorded  the  revelations  as  they  fell. 
It  was  a  common  scandal  that  these  men  were  the  authors 
of  many  of  his  precepts.  But  Mohammed  was  a  man  of 
too  much  power,  knowledge  and  eloquence,  to  need  any 
more  than  mechanical  assistance.  He  should  have  the 
honor  of  being  the  author  of  his  work. 

At  the  age  of  forty-three  Mohammed  came  forward 
with  his  new  claim.  He  declared  that  there  was  but  one 
God,  and  that  he  was  the  prophet  of  that  God.  It  was  a 
novel  proposition  and  one  not  likely  to  be  taken  up  en- 
thusiastically by  that  stationary  race.     His  first  convert 


150  MOHAMMED. 


was  his  wife.  He  had  easy  work  with  her,  for  her  love 
aided  his  argument.  The  xA.rabian  annalist  adds  a  miracle 
to  the  process.  But  it  is  quite  as  likely  that  Kadijah  may 
have  been  moved  by  the  mention  of  the  honorable  place 
she  was  about  to  have  in  the  sacred  record  as  one  of  the 
four  perfect  women.  The  next  convert  was  his  cousin 
All,  an  enthusiastic,  hair-brained  young  man,  who  received 
the  hand  of  Fatima  when  she  was  but  nine  years  old, — 
another  of  the  four  perfect  women.  The  third  was  Taid, 
a  slave,  to  whom  the  prophet  gave  his  freedom.  By  con- 
versation and  persuasion,  in  the  course  of  three  years  he 
had  gained  over  some  eight  or  ten  of  the  noble  youths  of 
Mecca.  But  it  w^as  verv  slow  work.  There  was  no 
enthusiasm  kindled  by  the  new  doctrine,  and  the  pilgrims 
to  Mecca  had  no  thought  that  a  prophet  was  there. 

During  this  period  the  revelations  were  secretly  multi- 
plying and  the  Koran  was  increasing.  But  at  last  the 
prophet  got  tired  of  this  slow  progress  and  began  openly 
to  proclaim  his  mission.  At  a  banquet  which  he  gave  to 
his  relatives  he  treated  them  to  very  simple  food,  but  to  a 
sermon  on  the  new  plan.  He  made  fair  promises  if  they 
would  become  his  disciples.  When  no  one  answered,  his 
cousin  Ali  began  to  threaten,  which  first  made  them  laugh 
and  afterwards  made  them  angry.  From  that  time  forward 
the  new  gospel,  which  had  before  been  ridiculous,  now 
became  obnoxious.  Each  new  convert  increased  the  ra2:e 
and  hatred  of  the  tribe  ;  and  when  Omar,  the  most  emi- 
nent of  their  young  men,  and  a  former  rival  of  Mohammed, 
gave  m  his  adhesion  the  war  broke  out,  the  party  of 
Mohammed  were  banished,  and  he  himself  was  obliged  to 
be  very  circumspect.  So  the  thing  continued  for  ten 
years.  The  new  prophet  had  in  that  time  converted  a  few 
of  the  leading  men,  most  of  his  own  family,  had  extorted 
a  confession  from  his  dying  uncle,  and  had  lost  his  most 
valuable  auxiliary  in  the  death  of  his  wife  Kadijah.  He 
now  began  to  take  a  more  popular  course.  He  mingled 
with  the  pilgrims  in  the  sacred  festivals.  He  inflamed 
their  imagination  by  his  promises  of  sensual  delights.  He 
flattered  their  prejudices  by  praising  their  scrupulous 
piety,  and  showing  that  the  new  system  retained  the  an- 
cient customs.     He  practised,  too,  the  conspicuous  virtues, 


MOHAMMED.  151 


and  made  them  see  that  he  was  a  saint,  if  they  suspected 
that  he  was  a  fanatic.  He  made  his  prime  doctrines  sim- 
ple, while  he  allowed  mystical  rites,  appealing  thus  at  once 
to  the  sense  and  to  the  credulity  of  his  hearers.  And  his 
persuasions  were  not  without  effect.  Some  who  heard 
him  carried  away  the  report  of  his  wisdom  and  sanctity, 
and  he  began  to  have  apostles. 

To  supply  the  loss  of  his  first  companion,  who  left  to  him 
her  fortune,  Mohammed  took  to  himself  two  young  wives 
from  noble  families.  This  circumstance  was  not  likely  to 
increase  his  general  popularity  or  his  domestic  comfort, 
though  the  two  wives  got  along  very  well  together.  The 
favorite  was  extremely  young,  being  only  seven  years  old. 
But  the  downfall  of  Mohammed  in  Mecca  was  mainly 
prepared  by  his  fantastic  relation  of  a  journey  into  and 
through  heaven,  which  he  took  one  night  about  the  twelfth 
year  of  his  mission,  with  the  angel  Gabriel.  This  extra- 
ordinary journey  is  variously  related  by  the  different 
chronicles,  som.e  contenting  themselves  with  a  modest  ab- 
stract of  his  interview  with  Adam  and  the  Patriarchs,  with 
Jesus  and  John,  —  others  giving  minute  descriptions  of  the 
seven  heavens  as  Mohammed  saw  them.  The  chief  wonder 
of  the  first  heaven  seems  to  have  been  an  enormous  cock, 
that  crowed  so  loud  every  morning  as  to  be  heard  by 
all  creatures  on  earth  except  men  and  fairies.  The  second 
heaven  was  of  gold,  the  third  of  diamonds,  the  fourth  of 
emeralds,  the  fifth  of  adamant,  the  sixth  of  carbuncle,  and 
the  seventh  of  celestial  light.  In  all  these  heavens  were 
holy  men  and  angels  of  enormous  height.  The  seventh 
heaven  was  all  full  of  angels  grouped  around  Jesus.  One 
of  them  was  remarkably  gifted,  with  a  vocal  power  defying 
all  calculation  ;  —  for  he  had  seventy  thousand  heads,  and 
in  each  head  seventy  thousand  mouths,  and  in  each  mouth 
seventy  thousand  tongues,  and  to  each  tongue  seventy 
thousand  distinct  voices,  and  each  voice  was  eternally 
praising  God.  One  would  think  that  other  angels  in  such 
a  company  as  this  would  be  superfluous.  The  crowning 
grace  of  the  journey,  however,  was  in  the  private  inter- 
view that  Mohammed  had  with  God,  —  who  showed  him 
his  destined  seat  in  heaven,  and  gave  him  for  the  formula 
of  his  religion,  God  is  one,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet. 


152  MOHAMMED. 


The  various  absurdities  of  this  narrative  were  so  glaring 
that  some  of  the  prophet's  judicious  friends  advised  him 
to  keep  it  to  himself.  But  he  felt  moved  to  declare  it  in 
open  company,  and  some  rather  puzzling  questions  were 
asked  him  about  it.  One  in  particular,  as  to  the  temple  of 
Jerusalem,  troubled  him,  since  in  the  first  place,  the  ques- 
tioner had  been  there,  and  in  the  second,  Mohammed  had 
represented  the  night  of  his  visit  as  extremely  dark.  But 
he  got  out  of  the  dilemma  by  the  assistance  of  the  angel 
Gabriel,  who  favored  him  with  an  extempore  plan  of  the 
temple. 

This  kind  of  blasphemy,  and  a  league  which  he  formed 
with  some  converts  from  another  tribe,  finally  determined 
the  people  to  assassinate  him.  A  number  were  banded 
together  in  pursuit  of  him,  agreeing  to  divide  the  crime. 
He  discovered  the  plot  and  made  his  escape  by  night, 
exchanging  garments  with  Ali,  his  son-in-law,  so  that  when 
his  pursuers  saw  his  green  vest  through  the  crevice  of  the 
door  they  felt  sure  of  him  and  relaxed  their  scrutiny.  He 
had  close  work  however  in  escaping.  Three  days  he  was 
hidden  in  a  cave  which  escaped  his  enemies  search, 
because  a  spider  had  spun  across  its  mouth  and  a  pigeon 
had  laid  two  eggs  there,  showing  that  it  could  not  have 
been  entered.  He  reached  at  last  Yathreb,  or  Medina, 
was  hospitably  entertained  there  and  became  a  resident 
until  his  death.  His  flight  is  the  era  from  which  dates 
the  history  of  the  Mussulman  faith.  As  Christians  reckon 
it  was  on  Friday,  the  i6th  of  July,  a.  d.  622.  But  the 
Moslem  of  to-day  dates  not  in  the  nineteenth  century  of 
our  Lord,  but  in  the  year  1248  of  the  Hegira.  Medina 
henceforth  has  shared  the  holiness  of  Mecca,  and  is 
coupled  with  it  when  the  first  is  mentioned.  There  Mo- 
hammed found  the  people  more  docile,  and  converts  far 
more  abundant. 

Thus  far  the  mission  of  Mohammed  had  been  a  peace- 
ful one.  He  had  used  only  the  means  of  argument  and 
persuasion,  in  a  different  way  certainly  from  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  but  still  without  any  application  of  force.  But 
he  found  that  this  apostolic  method  did  not  make  converts 
fast  enough,  and  his  influence  at  Medina  determined  him 
to  propagate  his  faith  as  well  as  gratify  his  revenge,  by  the 


MOHAMMED.  153 


argument  of  the  sword.  He  organized  his  disciples  into 
an  army,  and  sent  out  bands  sometimes  to  plunder  cara- 
vans and  sometimes  to  battle  with  the  idolaters.  The  first 
performance  seemed  to  be  justified  by  the  promise  that 
the  faithful  should  possess  all  the  good  things  of  this  life  ; 
the  other  by  the  fearful  woes  which  the  Koran  denounced 
upon  infidelity.  The  valor  of  the  Moslems,  or  the  favors 
of  God  and  the  aid  of  angels,  as  Mohammed  preferred  to 
call  it,  gained  them  the  first  battle,  and  the  men  of  Mecca 
were  slaughtered  and  captured  in  numbers.  One  of  their 
poets  composed  an  elegy  on  the  occasion.  During  the 
whole  engagement  Mohammed  was  praying  in  his  house. 

In  the  ten  years  of  Mohammed's  life  after  the  hegira, 
he  was  in  a  constant  turmoil  of  wars,  intrigues,  and  out- 
rages, none  of  which  were  very  remarkable  for  their 
religious  earnestness.  Now  he  fought  with  the  Jews,  whom 
he  so  bitterly  hated  that  he  ordered  the  faithful  to  turn  to 
Mecca  in  prayer  instead  of  Jerusalem,  which  had  before 
been  the  place  to  which  they  looked,  and  was  so  laid  down 
in  the  Koran.  Now^  he  made  forays  into  the  distant  tribes 
of  happy  Arabia,  bringing  back  from  each  spoil  enough 
and  a  wife  or  two,  while  he  left  his  religion  behind  as  a 
blessed  exchange.  The  alternative  was  Islamism  or  death. 
It  was  the  most  convenient  way  and  saved  a  great  many 
words.  Time  would  fail  us  to  review  even  all  these 
skirmishes,  and  plots,  and  pitched  battles,  which  appear 
ridiculously  petty  to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  the 
details  of  warfare  in  other  nations. 

For  the  first  few  years  the  success  was  not  all  on  one 
side.  The  Koreishites  were  brave  and  shrewd,  and  the 
Mussulmen  met  with  some  severe  repulses.  But  they 
were  obstinate  and  had  God  on  their  side,  and  were  in  the 
main  successful.  In  the  sixth  year  of  the  hegira,  Mo- 
hammed felt  strong  enough  to  proclaim  himself  at  once 
king  and  chief  priest,  and  to  add  a  temporal  rule  to  his 
divine  sovereignty.  He  was  inaugurated  under  a  tree, 
and  he  built  a  pulpit  in  his  mosque  to  preach  from,  from 
which  he  promulgated  both  his  law  and  his  gospel.  After 
this,  he  set  himself  resolutely  to  conquer  Mecca,  and 
though  several  times  repulsed  and  turned  aside,  in  the 
eighth  year  of  the   hegira  obtained  his  wish  and   dictated 


154  MOHAMMED. 


his  terms  as  king  to  the  city  from  which  he  had  been 
forced  to  flee  for  his  life.  They  had  an  easy  release. 
Only  a  few  suffered  from  their  hostility  and  the  change  of 
worship  which  the  conqueror  required  was  very  slight.  He 
set  them  the  example  by  performing  the  circuit  of  the 
Caaba,  and  reverently  kissins^  the  black  stone.  The  con- 
quest  of  Mecca  was  the  triumph  of  his  religion  in  Arabia, 
The  various  tribes  vied  with  each  other  in  embracing 
Islamism.  And  the  army  with  which  the  prophet  went 
out   to    convert    or    to   exterminate  those  who   continued 


obstinate  exceeded  thirtv  thousand  men.  Envovs  bea^an 
to  come  in  from  the  east  and  the  west  to  offer  congratula- 
tions. Poets  sang  their  panegyrics.  The  Roman  emperor 
deigned  to  answer  with  some  valuable  presents,  the  polite 
invitation  of  the  Arabian  prophet  to  embrace  his  faith. 
The  Egyptian  viceroy  sent  him  two  young  maidens  while 
he  considered  the  proposal.  Even  from  Persia  and  Abys- 
sinia favorable  messages  came.  And  a  master-stroke  of 
policy  was  in  commanding  that  the  gates  of  the  Caaba 
should  be  closed  on  pain  of  death  to  all  but  genuine  Mus- 
sulmen. 

In  the  last  year  of  Mohammed's  life  he  made  a  grand 
pilgrimage  from  Medina  to  Mecca.  In  his  train  were  one 
hundred  thousand  of  his  enthusiastic  disciples.  All  along 
the  way  the  people  flocked  to  meet  him.  It  was  a 
triumphal  progress.  The  ceremonies  in  the  temple  are 
minutely  described,  —  how  he  went  seven  times  round  the 
Caaba,  —  how  he  prayed  all  the  night, —  how  he  sacrificed 
sixty-three  camels  and  freed  sixty-three  slaves,  to  corre- 
spond with  his  age  at  the  time, — how  he  drank  seven 
times  of  the  well  Temsem,  and  prayed  on  Mount  Araba 
on  the  ninth  day,  the  mountain  where  Adam  and  Eve 
met  after  a  parting  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years. 
All  these  and  more  you  may  find  in  the  chronicle  of 
Abalfeda. 

It  was  the  common  belief  of  the  converts  that  their 
prophet  could  not  die  ;  and  there  was  great  consternation 
when  in  the  eleventh  year  of  the  hegira  on  the  8th  of 
June,  632,  A.  D.,  the  sickness  of  thirteen  days  brought 
the  Holy  One  of  God  to  the  tomb,  as  if  he  were  a  com- 
mon  man.      Some   who   had  read   the    New  Testament's 


MOHAMMED.  155 


account  expected  a  resurrection.  But  the  wise  were 
turned  aside  from  their  doubts  about  the  reality  of  his 
death  by  disputes  about  his  place  of  burial.  This  was 
finally  decided  in  favor  of  Medina,  and  was  accomplished 
with  <;reat  pomp  and  ceremony  in  a  grave  under  his  private 
chambe*.  Mohammed  died  without  fear  or  resrret.  He 
saw  his  mission  accomplished,  his  religjion  triumphant, 
he  had  enjoyed  enough  of  life,  and  had  already  a  lar^^e 
foretaste  of  the  Paradise  which  he  believed  awaited  him. 
The  angel  of  death  requested  permission  through  Gabriel 
to  enter ;  which  was  granted,  and  the  prophet  died. 

It  has  long  been  a  mooted  question  whether  Mohammed 
was  a  fanatic  or  an  imposter.  And  the  discussion  is  about 
as  doubtful  in  its  issue  as  that  concerning  the  sincerity  of 
Oliver  Cromwell.  It  is  easy  for  the  zealous  Christian  to 
argue  that  the  contriver  of  so  many  absurdities  and  false- 
hoods must  have  been  a  hypocrite,  but  Moslem  authorities 
will  not  look  at  the  matter  in  such  a  lii^ht.  Those  who 
demand  a  good  moral  character  according  to  the  Christian 
standard,  as  presumptive  evidence  of  religious  sincerity, 
will  not  be  gratified  in  the  case  of  Mohammed.  He  was 
unquestionably  a  sensualist  in  his  private  life,  and  though 
not  cruel  or  tyrannical,  was  fond  of  power  and  determined 
to  have  his  own  way.  He  was  ambitious  and  rapacious,  a 
true  Arab  in  his  perseverance  and  his  vindictiveness.  We 
must  take  with  great  allowance  the  glowing  account  of  his 
virtues  which  his  friends  have  left,  and  we  need  not  receive 
as  the  perfect  proof  of  his  humility,  the  fact  that  he 
mended  his  own  clothes  and  shoes.  Many  a  proud  man 
has  done  that,  without  any  abatement  of  his  pride.  His 
physical  structure,  his  thick  neck,  his  hooked  nose,  his 
monstrous  head,  and  the  whole  form  of  his  features  indi- 
cate more  vigor  than  gentleness,  more  obstinacy  than 
spirituality.  He  was  no  doubt  very  much  such  a  man  as 
Oliver  Cromwell,  in  whom  enthusiasm  and  ambition  were 
mingled  in  about  equal  proportions.  He  was  one  of  those 
whose  passions  argue  to  them,  whose  inclinations  become 
to  them  as  truths.     That  he  misrht  have  been  from   the 

.....  o 

besfmnmg  suicere  \n  believing  his  own  religion  divine,  is 
reasonable  enough,  since  it  was  a  decided  advance,  both 
morally   and   spiritually,  upon   the    religions   at   that   time 


156  MOHAMMED. 


existing  around  him.  Impostors  of  that  stamp  usually 
become  sincere,  if  they  are  not  so  at  the  beginnino^.  And 
each  new  convert  that  they  make  confirms  their  delusion. 
It  is  very  doubtful  at  first  if  Mohammed  thought  of  the 
temporal  power  which  he  afterwards  gained  or  of  becom- 
ing at  all  a  soldier.  He  was  probably  sincere  in  his  inten- 
tion of  religious  reform,  though  he  thought  it  expedient 
and  comfortable  in  accomplishing  this  to  secure  an  honora- 
ble place  at  the  head  of  this  reform.  It  was  the  disap- 
pointment and  persecution  which  he  met  with  which  de- 
veloped the  bad  traits  of  his  character  and  made  him  an 
assassin  and  plunderer,  as  well  as  a  prophet.  The  heredi- 
tary guardian  of  the  temple  might  well  devise  a  purer 
system  of  worship.  But  the  Arabian  fugitive  could  not 
forgive  or  forget  that  he  had  been  insulted  and  hated  for 
his  disinterested  zeal. 

But  it  is  of  small  importance  to  us  Christians  to  settle 
precisely  what  was  the  motive  or  character  of  Mohammed. 
Certain  it  is  that  his  imposture  has  not  shared  the  common 
fate  of  impostures.  Whatever  the  man,  there  must  have 
been  some  reality  in  that  religion  that  could  make  in  ten 
years  the  conquest  of  so  vast  a  country,  and  could  bring 
such  tribes  of  men  as  the  free  and  obstinate  Arabs  into  its 
almost  unanimous  support.  Large  bodies  of  men  cannot 
be  compelled  so  rapidly  into  the  support  of  a  gigantic 
falsehood.  And  if  we  look  at  the  Moslem  faith  in  its  re- 
lation to  the  character  and  institutions  of-  the  Oriental 
nations  we  may  see  that  it  is  a  natural  faith  to  arise  and 
grow  there. 

The  religion  of  Mohammed  is  properly  called  Islamism, 
meaning  the  devotion  of  oneself  to  God.  It  is  contained 
in  the  Koran,  or  book,  a  word  derived  from  the  Arabic 
verb  karaa,  to  read,  meaning  the  thing  which  ought  to  be 
read.  This  term  Koran,  is  indifferently  applied  to  the  whole 
or  to  a  part  of  the  revelations  of  Mohammed.  The  syllable 
Al,  sometimes  prefixed  to  the  word,  is  merely  the  article, 
the.  The  whole  book  is  divided  into  one  hundred  and 
fourteen  portions  or  chapters,  of  very  unequal  length,  some 
of  them  in  a  single  paragraph,  some  of  them  as  long  as 
the  books  of  the  Bible.  The  chapters  are  not  distinguished 
by  the   number,  but  by  their  title,  which  is  taken  either 


MOHAMMED.  157 


frDm  the  subject  which  they  treat  of,  or  from  some  remarka- 
ble person  or  thing  mentioned  in  them.  They  mention 
the  phice  also  in  which  they  are  revealed,  whether  Mecca 
or  Medina,  or  both.  The  larger  portion  were  revealed  at 
Mecca.  All  the  copies  of  the  Koran  are  not  alike.  There 
are  various  readings  in  great  numbers  as  of  the  Bible. 
There  are  seven  principal  editions.  In  these  the  number- 
ing of  the  verses  is  different.  But  they  all  contain  the 
same  number  of  words  and  of  letters.  The  Arabians  had 
the  same  fondness  with  the  Jews  for  cabalistic  interpreta- 
tions. They  count  323,015  letters  in  all,  and  some  of 
them  have  gone  so  far  as  to  frame  a  concordance  of  the 
letters  and  to  chronicle  the  exact  number  of  times  that 
each  is  used. 

Besides  this  unequal  division  into  chapters  and  verses, 
there  is  an  equal  division  and  sub-division  into  portions 
for  the  purposes  of  prayer  and  the  temple  service,  as  was 
the  case  with  the  Jewish  Law,  These  were  in  some  cases 
so  arranged  that  the  whole  Koran  should  be  read  over  in 
each  chapel  every  day.  Some  of  the  chapters  begin  with 
peculiar  marks,  which  are  the  signs  of  special  sanctity. 
Thus  the  second  be2:ins  with  A.  S.  M. 

The  style  of  the  Koran  is  pure  and  beautiful  to  the  last 
degree,  and  it  is  one  of  the  proofs  of  his  inspiration  to 
which  Mohammed  confidently  appealed.  He  maintained 
that  only  God's  prophet  could  have  composed  a  work 
which  the  first  poets  of  the  most  poetical  nation  of  earth 
gave  up  as  beyond  their  rivalry.  In  fact,  the  Koran  is  a 
sort  of  prose  poem.  The  close  of  the  chapters  is  rhyth- 
mical, and  the  whole  flow  is  highly  musical.  It  is  full  of 
metaphor  and  imagery  and  bold  and  extravagant  flights. 
It  has  no  resemblance  to  the  modesty  of  the  Christian 
Scriptures.  Mohammed  writes  like  one  who  is  conscious 
of  doing  some  great  thing.  God  is  his  helper,  more  than 
he  is  the  instrument  of  God. 

It  would  be  impossible  at  the  close  of  this  lecture,  or 
even  in  a  whole  lecture,  to  give  you  a  full  idea  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  Koran,  or  to  make  any  close  or  just  analysis. 
I  can  only  indicate  the  leading  views  and  characteristics 
without  quoting  any  passages.  As  we  read  the  book  in 
English,  all  the  extraordinary  beauties  of  its  style   in   the 


15S  MOHAMMED. 


original  are  lost  in  its  dreary  and  stupid  monotonv.  Very 
few  Christian  readers  would  have  patience  to  toil  through 
those  one  hundred  and  fourteen  revelations.  And  if  the 
Christian  practice  of  rewarding  children  for  reading  in 
order  the  sacred  pages  prevails  in  Moslem  lands,  the 
largest  piece  of  gold  will  be  fully  earned  by  the  child  who 
shall  have  achieved  the  Koran  through  all  its  chapters. 

Islam,  or  the  religion  of  the  Koran,  is  divided  into  two 
distinct  portions.  Iman,  or  faith,  and  Din,  or  practice. 
There  is  one  fundamental  point  of  faith  and  four  of  prac- 
tice. So  we  see  that  the  five  points  of  religion  were  not 
an  original  idea  with  our  Calvinistic  ancestors. 

The  fundamental  doctrine  of  the  Koran  is  the  7/nify  of 
God.  This  is  taught  throughout  the  book  in  its  strictness 
and  simplicity.  It  is  this  which  Mohammed  declared  that 
he,  in  common  with  all  true  prophets,  was  sent  especially 
to  teach.  Abraham  and  Moses,  and  Jesus,  all  were  sent 
to  remind  men  of  it,  but  since  their  revelations  were 
but  partially  received  and  had  been  greatly  corrupted, 
Mohammed  was  sent  as  the  final  messenger  to  declare  it 
explicitly  to  all  people.  The  Sabians  had  the  doctrine, 
but  it  was  only  the  confused  worship  of  a  vast  planetary 
system.  The  Jews  had  the  doctrine,  but  their  excessive 
reverence  for  Jehovah's  name,  and  their  reliance  on  their 
priestly  mediators,  tended  to  destroy  for  them  its  effect 
and  its  integrity.  The  Christians  had  the  doctrine,  but 
they  had  transformed  it  into  the  incomprehensible  idea  of 
a  Trinity  in  Unity.  Mohammed  restored  the  primitive 
view,  and  laid  down  his  fundamental  article  that  there  is 
but  one  God,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet. 

Under  this  general  head  six  specific  views  are  included. 
First,  Belief  in  God.  Second,  In  his  angels,  of  which 
there  are  three  classes,  —  the  good,  the  bad,  and  the  genii, 
who  are  intermediate  between  the  two.  The  four  princi- 
pal angels  were  Gabriel,  Michael,  Azrael,  and  Israfil. 
This  doctrine  concerning  angels  was  partly  borrowed  from 
the  Persians  and  partly  from  the  Jews.  Third,  Belief  in 
the  Scriptures.  By  this  term  they  reckon  one  hundred 
and  four  books,  all  of  which  must  be  believed,  but  one 
hundred  of  which  are  wholly  lost,  ten  given  to  Adam, 
fifty  to  Seth,  thirty  to  Enoch,  and   ten  to  Abraham.     The 


MOHAMMED.  159 


other  four  given  successively  to  Moses,  David,  Jesus  and 
Mohammed  are  the  Pentateuch,  the  Psalms,  the  Gospel 
and  the  Koran.  Three  of  these  are  so  much  corrupted 
and  altered  that  no  credit  should  be  given  to  any  copy  in 
the  hands  of  Jews  or  Christians.  It  is  probable  that  the 
Mohammedans  possessed  some  imperfect  copies  of  the 
Pentateuch  and  the  Gospels.  But  the  perfection  of  the 
Koran,  which,  according  to  Mohammed,  was  to  be  miracu- 
lously guarded  from  corruption,  made  it  unnecessary  to 
search  any  other  Scriptures.  They  were  content  like  the 
majority  of  Christians  now  to  take  their  Biblical  faith  on 
trust.  Mohammed  had  a  very  convenient  way  of  getting 
over  the  contradictory  passages  of  the  Koran  by  his  law 
of  abrogation.  A  later  passage  abrogated  an  earlier,  as  in 
our  laws.  This  law  of  abrogation  is  of  three  kinds.  First, 
of  both  the  letter  and  the  sense ;  second,  of  the  letter 
without  the  sense,  and  third,  of  the  sense  without  the 
letter. 

The  fourth  specification  of  doctrine  is  belief  in  the 
prophets.  Of  these  Mohammed  numbers  upwards  of 
one  and  some  say  two  hundred  thousand.  Three  hundred 
and  thirteen  of  these  were  special  Apostles,  and  six  of 
these  Apostles,  Adam,  Noah,  Abraham,  Moses,  Jesus, 
and  Mohammed  were  the  founders  of  the  new  dispensa- 
tions. There  were  these  three  degrees  of  honor,  but  all 
the  prophets  were  held  to  be  sound  in  doctrine  and  pure  in 
life,  and  all  to  teach  substantially  one  religion.  Mo- 
hammed maintained  that  his  mission  had  been  abundantly 
prophesied.  Upon  the  fifth  article,  the  belief  in  a  general 
resurrection  and  a  future  judgment,  the  Koran  is  very 
full.  Mohammed  held  that  immediately  after  death  a 
special  commission  of  angels  examines  the  departed  in 
his  tomb,  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  that,  according  to 
their  decision,  Azrael,  the  angel  of  death,  proceeds  to 
separate  the  soul  from  the  body  with  greater  or  less  vio- 
lence, according  to  the  excellence  of  the  person.  The 
souls  of  the  prophets  enter  at  once  into  Paradise.  The 
souls  of  the  martyrs  undergo  a  sort  of  delightful  purga- 
tory in  the  crops  of  the  birds  that  eat  of  the  fruits  and 
drink  of  the  waters  of  paradise.  As  to  the  souls  of  com- 
mon   believers,    nobody   knows   exactly   where    they   are. 


i6o  MOHAMMED. 


They  may  be  lingering  round  their  tombs  or  they  may  be 
flying  about  in  the  shape  of  birds,  or  they  may  be  hidden 
in  the  waters  of  the  holy  well  Zemzem.  At  any  rate,  they 
shall  hereafter  be  joined  with  their  risen  bodies,  and  sum- 
moned to  Paradise.  The  chief  descriptions  of  the  Koran 
are  of  the  signs  of  this  resurrection  and  the  nature  of 
this  great  reward.  There  are  eight  lesser  and  seventeen 
greater  signs,  some  of  them  borrowed  from  the  Christian 
Scriptures,  and  some  of  them  very  fantastic  ;  one,  for  in- 
stance, being  the  decay  of  faith,  another  the  darkening  of 
the  moon,  another  the  coming  of  Jesus,  and  so  on. 

The  day  of  judgment  finally  comes  with  three  blasts  of 
the  trumpet  by  the  angel  Israfil,  the  blast  of  terror,  of 
annihilation,  and  of  resurrection.  The  Angel  Gabriel 
holds  the  gigantic  balance  trembling  over  hell  and  heaven. 
And  the  good  and  the  wicked  are  sent  each  to  their  own 
place.  There  are  seven  heavens  and  seven  hells,  and  a 
limbo  for  those  whose  sins  and  virtues  are  equally  balanced. 
All  infidels  are  in  hell,  the  Christians  in  the  third,  the 
hypocrites  in  the  seventh.  All  believers  are  in  heaven, 
the  perfect  in  Paradise,  the  seventh  heaven,  just  under  the 
throne  of  God.  Good  Christian  writers  hold  that  the 
crowning  blasphemy  of  the  Moslem  faith  is  in  the  account 
which  it  gives  of  the  heavenly  state  and  the  enjoyments  of 
Paradise,  —  of  its  eating  and  drinking,  and  its  black-eyed 
houris.  But  many  of  these  descriptions  are  borrowed 
verbatim  from  the  Jewish  Scriptures,  and  all  may  be  found 
in  the  celestial  ideas  of  other  religions.  Sensual,  as  was 
Mohammed's  idea  of  Paradise,  it  was  not  wholly  sensual. 
.  It  had  in  it  the  element  of  progress,  and  one  of  its  prom- 
ised joys  was  the  sight  of  the  face  of  God.  Yet  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  chief  impression  that  it  gave  to  his  dis- 
ciples was  one  of  absolute  voluptuousness.  It  is  singular 
that  wine,  which  Mohammed  strictly  prohibited  on  earth, 
should  have  formed  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  heaven. 
It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  Mohammedan  religion  denies 
to  women  any  souls.  But  portions  of  hell  are  largely  sup- 
plied with  them,  and  some  are  admitted  into  heaven.  I 
might  go  largely  into  the  details  of  Mohammed's  view 
concerning  the  world  beyond  the  grave.  But  the  various 
ways  in  which  it  has  been  interpreted  prove  that  though 


MOHAMMED.  i6i 


full  it  was  not  perfectly  clear.  And  it  is  not  a  view  which 
would  take  much  hold  of  or  have  much  charm  for  a 
spiritually-minded  man. 

The  sixth  belief  is  in  the  predestination  of  God.  This 
Mohammed  held  to  be  thorough,  minute,  and  absolute, — - 
that  all  a  man's  acts,  and  words,  and  thoughts,  and  fortune 
were  fixed  from  all  eternity.  And  he  impressed  this  idea 
indelibly  upon  his  system.  The  most  striking  character- 
istics of  all  Moslem  nations  to  this  day  is  their  blind 
fatalism,  their  submission  to  destiny,  their  indifference  to 
death,  or  calamity,  believing  all  to  be  foreordained.  Mo- 
hammed found  this  doctrine  of  great  service  in  propa- 
gating his  religion  by  the  sword. 

There  are  four  points  of  practice  or  ceremonial  religion 
in  the  Koran.  The  first  is  prayer.  This  is  the  chief  of 
duties.  It  comes  five  times  in  a  day.  And  even  now 
every  good  Moslem  is  as  punctual  as  ever  to  perform  his 
devotions  and  will  leave  any  work  when  he  hears  the  voice 
of  the  muezzin  calling  from  the  tower.  Prayer  includes 
several  elements,  —  washing,  of  which  great  account  was 
made,  —  the  Koran  may  almost  be  called  the  Gospel  of 
cleanliness,  —  circumcision,  a  rite  borrowed  from  the  Jews, 
yet  religiously  observed,  —  modest  apparel,  and  turning 
toward  Mecca.  Their  mosques  are  so  constructed  that 
this  can  be  done  without  mistake.  The  times  are  just 
before  sunrise,  just  after  noon,  just  before  sunset,  just 
before  dark,  and  shortly  after  dark.  The  forms  of  prayer 
are  given,  and  the  practice  of  telling  beads  prevails,  as  in 
the  Catholic  Church.  The  second  point  of  practice  is 
alms-giving.  This  is  of  two  kinds,  legal  and  voluntary,  — 
one  a  matter  of  compulsion,  the  other  of  choice.  The 
compulsory  alms  were  distributed  to  the  poor  or  used  in 
the  service  of  the  temple  and  in  warfare.  The  Moham- 
medans, however,  were  fortunate  in  having  no  hierarchy 
to  support,  no  order  of  lazy  priests  to  pay.  The  duty  of 
alms-giving  was  acknowledged  by  the  hereditary  customs 
of  the  people. 

The  third  point  of  practice  is  fasting.     This  is  of  three 

kinds,  —  abstinence  from  eating,  restraint  of  the   senses, 

and  restraint  of  the  heart.     The  fasts  were  voluntary  and 

regular.     He  was  the  holiest  who  had  most  of  the  former, 

II 


i62  MOHAMMED, 


but  all  were  expected  to  fast  during  the  whole  month  Ra- 
madan, which  was  the  sacred  season  when  the  Koran  was 
revealed.  As  this  month  was  variable,  sometimes  the  fast 
became  very  severe.  It  consisted  of  abstinence  from  all 
food  and  drink,  and  pleasure  of  every  kind  from  sunrise 
to  sunset  of  everv  one  of  the  twenty-nine  days. 

The  fourth  article  of  practice  is  the  pilgrimage  to  Mecca. 
This  great  act  must  be  performed  at  least  once  in  his  life 
by  every  believer,  or  heaven  will  be  shut  against  him.  It 
was  performed  by  some  every  year.  It  was  an  ancient 
custom  of  the  people  and  was  only  continued  by  Moham- 
med. It  was  attended  by  many  complicated  and  absurd 
ceremonies,  by  sacrifices  and  prayers  without  number,  and 
sometimes  by  battle. 

The  prohibitions  of  the  Koran  are  numerous  and  excel- 
lent. Wine,  gambling,  usury,  divination,  the  exposure 
and  murder  of  children  and  other  abuses  were  strictly 
forbidden.  Swine's  flesh  was  made  as  unclean  as  to  the 
Jew.  And  indeed  many  of  Mohammed's  restrictions  are 
borrowed  from  the  Jewish  Law.  Mussulmen  do  not 
always  observe  these  restrictions.  But  still  they  form  part 
of  the  religion.  And  it  has  been  observed  of  Moslem 
countries  that  they  are  nearly  free  from  gambling  and 
intemperance,  the  double  curse  of  the  Christian  civiliza- 
tion. Mohammed  objects  to  chess, —  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  game  as  of  the  idolatrous  influence  of  the 
little  figures  with  which  it  is  played. 

The  Koran  was  not  only  a  body  of  religious  precepts 
but  also  of  civil  statutes.  It  contains  laws  with  regard 
to  education,  marriage,  war  and  government,  but  want  of 
time  compels  me  to  pass  these  by.  They  are  not  of  much 
interest.  We  might  speak  also  at  length  of  the  ritual  of 
Islam, —  of  the  various  customs  arising  from  the  necessi- 
ties of  the  new  faith.  And  of  the  sects,  too,  almost  as 
numerous  as  the  Christian,  who  arose  to  divide  the  unity 
of  the  prophet's  household.  Islamism,  though  it  may 
seem  to  us  a  gigantic  imposture,  had  also  its  minor  impos- 
tures, and  its  false  prophets. 

It  would  be  interesting,  too,  to  trace  the  conquests  of 
the  new  religion  out  of  Arabia,  how  it  spread  in  the  East 
and  West,  exterminating  Christianity  in  one  direction  and 


MOHAMMED.  163 


rivalling  it  in  the  other,  —  how  it  subdued  the  land  of  the 
Magi  and  established  the  romantic  and  powerful  kingdom 
of  the  Caliphs,  —  how  it  settled  in  the  Holy  Land  and 
built  its  mosque  upon  Mount  Moriah, — how  it  seized  the 
city  of  Constantine,  and  spurned  the  Christian  dog  from 
the  harbor  of  the  Golden  Horn,  —  how  it  followed  up  the 
ancient  Nile,  and  substituted  another  teaching  for  the 
tradition  of  Pharoah's,  —  how  it  overran  the  deserts  of 
Libya,  planted  the  crescent  on  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  — ■ 
and  built  temples  to  Allah  and  his  prophet  by  the  pillars 
of  Hercules  and  on  the  hills  of  Iberia.  But  this  would 
lead  us  into  too  broad  a  field.  It  is  not  a  historical  sketch 
of  the  religion  of  Mohammed  that  we  propose.  We 
shall  see  enough  of  it  when  we  consider  the  religious  his- 
tory of  Spain  and  the  wars  of  the  Crusades.  Our  episode 
has  already  been  long  enough,  perhaps  you  will  think  dry 
enough.  But  if  you  find  this  short  sketch  of  the  origin 
and  character  of  the  Koran  fatiguing,  you  will  find  the 
book  itself  far  more  wearisome.  One  great  drawback 
upon  the  happiness  of  Mohammed's  Paradise  must  be  the 
burden  of  reading  the  Koran  there.  He  should  have 
numbered  it  as  penance  and  torment. 


164  UILDEBBANI). 


VI. 

HILDEBRAND  AND  THE    CATHOLIC  CHURCH. 

We  have  already  traced  the  internal  organization  of  the 
Catholic  Church  from  its  small  democratic  be^rinnins-s  to  its 
complete  and  magnificent  hierarchy.  We  have  seen  its 
singular  order  eliminated  and  developed,  its  form  of  doc- 
trine written  out  in  creeds  and  confirmed  by  councils,  its 
rules  of  life  settled  by  the  authority  of  saints  and  the  prac- 
tice of  centuries.  We  have  seen  it  in  conflict  with  heathen- 
ism and  in  conflict  with  heresy ;  how  it  exterminated  the 
ancient  Pagan,  how  it  silenced  the  new  blasphemer.  We 
have  watched  it  slowly  recovering  from  the  victorious 
Moslem  its  proper  losses,  and  silently  converting  the  bar- 
barian that  sought  to  destroy  it.  We  have  followed  its 
missionaries  in  their  martyr  labors  for  church  extension, 
and  its  scholars  in  their  skillful  plans  for  Church  concen- 
tration. We  have  seen  the  Church  contending  with 
ignorance  in  the  school,  and  with  worldlihess  in  the 
cloister,  vanquishing  the  superstitious  by  its  cathedral 
images  and  ritual,  and  employing  the  fanatic  in  its  monas- 
tic discipline.  We  have  gone  on  with  the  Catholic  faith 
in  its  theological,  its  social,  and  its  ecclesiastical  march  to 
power,  have  discovered  its  victory  in  doctrine,  and  dis- 
cipline, and  system.  Its  political  contest  now  remains  to 
be  noticed.  One  victory  more  is  needed  to  place  it  at  the 
head  of  the  nations,  as  well  as  of  the  faithful.  The 
Church  has  fought  with  infidels,  and  heretics,  and  schis- 
matics, and  profligates ;  it  has  had  its  Justins,  its  Jeromes, 
its  Leos,  and  its  Benedicts ;  it  has  made  the  Latin  creed, 
and  the  Latin  liturgy,  and  the  Latin  canons,  the  laws  of 
all  the  Roman  or  Teutonic  nations  ;  has  brought  church- 
men and  laymen  near  and  far,  to  look  up  to  Rome  with 
reverence,  the  bishop  to  bow  before  its  supremacy  and  the 
knight  to  own  allegiance  to  its  sanctity;  it  only  remains  to 


HILDEBRA  ND.  1 65 


contend  with  the  State,  and  to  raise  its  seat  above  that  of 
Empires. 

Special  conflicts  between  the  ecclesiastical  and  the  civil 
powers  had  not  been  wanting  in  any  age  of  Church 
history.  From  the  time  when  Peter  resisted  at  Jerusalem 
the  rulers  of  Israel,  to  the  time  when  Hildebrand  an- 
nounced his  great  formula  of  papal  sway,  the  ministers  of 
Christ  had  always  been  found  to  defy  kings  and  princi- 
palities, and  powers.  Ambrose  had  humbled  the  Roman 
Emperor  to  the  lowest  stool  of  penitence.  Leo  had  met 
Attila  with  successful  menace,  when  the  scourge  of  God 
came  fresh  from  his  plunder.  Monarchs  had  been  raised 
up  and  put  down  already  by  the  word  of  priests.  The 
threats  of  the  cloister  had  brought  trembling  into  the 
palace,  and  the  anathemas  of  the  Church  had  checked 
more  than  once  the  severe  decrees  of  the  king.  In 
these  special  conflicts  the  religious  power  was  generally 
sure  to  carry  the  day.  But  as  the  Church  grew  broader 
and  more  unwieldy,  and  the  nations  broke  asunder  from 
the  old  Roman  Empire,  the  conflicts  between  it  and  the 
State  became  less  frequent,  policy  took  the  place  of  prin- 
ciple, and  it  aimed  to  use  the  vices  of  kings  instead  of  de- 


nouncing them.  It  found  the  alliance  of  the  greater 
sovereigns  of  weight  in  confirming  its  power  within  itself. 
It  was  glad  to  keep  the  State  upon  its  side  in  its  warfare 
against  heresy  and  schism.  It  needed  the  strong  arm  of 
soldier  kings  to  sustain  its  Papal  decrees.  And  when 
Charlemagne  received,  in  the  year  800,  the  crown  of  the 
Western  Empire  from  the  hands  of  the  Pope,  it  is  probable 
that  he  felt  himself  to  be  less  the  vassal  than  the  patron 
of  that  spiritual  despot.  He  dictated  to  rather  than  lis- 
tened to  the  successor  of  Peter,  and  the  reluctant  Head  of 
the  Church  was  obliged  to  accept  as  substantial  orthodoxy 
the  politic  decisions  of  a  Prankish  conqueror.  The  suc- 
cessors of  Charlemagne  paid  apparent  homage  to  the 
Papal  seat.  But  its  decrees  and  its  authority  were  set  at 
naught  by  their  continual  practice. 

It  was  in  the  latter  half  of  the  eleventh  century  that  this 
royal  indifference  to  the  papal  edicts  had  reached  its 
height.  In  the  bold  enterprises  and  sanguinary  struggles 
of  that  epoch,  the  mediation  of  Rome  was  not  asked,  and 


1 66  HILDEBEAND. 

its  remonstrance  was  not  heeded.  William  the  Norman 
asked  for  no  papal  blessing,  and  feared  no  papal  curse  in 
his  savage  warfare  upon  the  Saxons.  The  mountain 
knights  of  Spain  were  guided  by  other  motives  than 
Catholic  zeal  in  driving  back  the  Saracens  from  the  homes 
of  their  fathers.  The  indolent  sovereign  of  France  mur- 
mured quite  audibly  at  the  exactions  of  religion  and  justi- 
fied the  refusal  of  his  nobles  to  contribute  to  the  needless 
expenses  of  the  Church.  It  had  become  a  question  with 
the  Emperor  of  Germany,  most  powerful  of  all  the  princes, 
whether  his  protection  of  the  Church  was  worth  its  trouble 
and  its  cost.  For  his  consent  had  been  tacitly  required  in 
the  confirmation  of  papal  elections,  and  had  been  needful 
to  make  valid  the  choice  of  bishops.  And  this  indiffer- 
ence to  the  dictation  of  Rome,  so  evident  upon  the  throne, 
was  propagated  downward  to  the  secular  lords  of  less 
degree.  The  knight  felt  that  he  could  interfere  in  the 
choice  of  his  bishop,  and  if  he  had  a  friend  to  whom  he 
wished  to  give  so  lucrative  a  place,  he  gave  it  without  fear, 
and  without  inquiring  into  the  religious  fitness  of  his  can- 
didate. The  practice,  called  investiture^  was  general  all 
over  the  Church.  Its  hig^h  officers  were  chosen  bv  the 
influence  of  the  secular  power  and  from  men  of  the  world, 
without  regard  to  their  sanctity,  and  without  their  being 
compelled  to  pass  the  toilsome  steps  of  the  religious  order. 
A  bishop  of  the  eleventh  century  was  not  of  necessity  a 
religious  man.  His  capacity  to  fight  was  more  esteemed 
than  his  gift  in  prayer,  and  he  was  expected  to  be  more  a 
boon  companion  than  a  spiritual  guide.  He  who  could 
drink  longest  at  the  evening  wassail  and  could  bring  into 
the  field  the  most  armed  retainers,  was  deemed  by  king 
and  noble  most  fit  as  shepherd  of  souls. 

And  this  dependence  of  the  bishop  and  priest  upon  the 
feudal  lord  had  given  rise  throughout  France  and  Germany 
to  the  sin  of  si??iony.  This  singular  sin,  which  has  played 
for  centuries  such  a  part  in  Roman  Catholic  discipline  and 
development,  and  which  to  this  day  has  a  secret  but  ex- 
tensive working,  derived  its  name  from  Simon  the  Sorcerer, 
who  offered  the  Apostles  money  to  impart  to  him  the  gift 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  It  consisted  in  the  purchase  of 
spiritual  privileges  and  ecclesiastical  holdings.     But  when 


BILBEBBAND.  167 


It  became  a  custom  for  the  king  or  knight  to  appoint  his 
religious  rulers,  then  came  in  a  competition  for  the  favor 
of  the  king  or  knight.  If  these  needed  money  they  had 
only  to  put  up  to  sale  their  spiritual  offices ;  and  the 
highest  bidder  was  installed  accordingly  vicar  of  God. 
The  secular  lord  gained  the  means  for  his  schemes  of  con- 
quest or  pleasure  in  the  contributions  of  his  spiritual 
vassals.  A  judicious  bribe  became  the  prelate's  talismaii 
to  favor  and  entrance  fee  to  power.  And  when  the  higher 
offices  became  venal,  the  inferior  offices  became  venal 
with  them.  The  corrupt  bishop  who  bought  his  own 
honor  had  no  scruple  in  receiving  back  from  his  priest- 
hood what  he  had  given  to  his  lord.  And  ultimately  this 
issued  in  the  system  of  profitable  absolutions,  and  he  who 
paid  most  roundly  for  it,  secured  the  easiest  salvation  for 
his  soul.  This  venality  of  Church  offices  was  greatly 
aggravated  by  the  fears  of  the  tenth  century,  when  the 
near  end  of  the  earth  drove  such  multitudes  of  the  warlike 
and  the  profligate  to  the  friendly  shelter  of  the  Church. 
It  demoralized  the  clergy,  lowered  the  standard  of  fitness, 
and  made  the  ability  to  pay  of  more  consideration  than  a 
heart  renewed  to  God.  It  changed  the  Church  from  a 
censor  of  vice  and  crime  to  a  partisan  and  tributary  in  all 
kinds  of  worldliness.  The  Church  was  expected  to  fur- 
nish, not  rebukes,  but  subsidies  to  wickedness.  The 
rulers  of  the  State  looked  not  for  its  condemnation,  but 
for  its  contributions. 

And  this  dependence  of  the  Church  upon  the  State  was 
still  further  increased  by  the  violations  of  the  law  of  celi- 
bacy, which  were  not  only  justified  but  encouraged  by  the 
civil  power.  It  is  difficult  to  discover  in  the  history  of  the 
Church  when  the  custom  of  celibacy  was  reckoned  essen- 
tial to  priestly  holiness.  From  the  very  earliest  time  Paul 
had  had,  among  the  more  devout,  imitators  in  his  practical 
abstinence  from  marriage,  and  his  theory  was  praised  by 
many  who  had  not  the  self-denial  to  practice  it.  The  in- 
fluence of  the  monastic  spirit  confirmed  the  Pauline  preju- 
dice. When  Jerome  in  the  fourth  century  uttered  his 
sarcasm  upon  the  married  ministers  at  the  altar,  he  spoke 
the  general  sentiment  of  the  Church.  In  the  councils  of  the 
fifth  century  it  was  made  a  canon  that  he  who  could  say 


1 68  UILDEBRAND. 


the  mass  must  be  free  from  all  indulgence  of  fleshly 
lusts,  and  have  no  family  cares  to  distract  him  from 
a  single  devotion  to  the  Church  and  God.  The 
Church  was  to  be  to  him  without  a  metaphor,  his 
bride  and  spouse.  The  Canticles  and  the  Apocalpyse 
interpreted  his  religious  duty.  But  a  canon  of  this  kind 
could  not  hinder  the  natural  instincts  of  men.  The 
domestic  was  an  earlier  state  than  the  monastic,  and 
based  more  truly  on  human  nature.  And  when  the  priest 
preferred  the  experience  of  comfort  to  the  reputation  of 
sanctity,  and  felt  himself  to  be  shielded  by  the  favor  of 
some  secular  protector,  he  entered  readily  into  the  bonds 
which  the  Church  denounced  as  impure.  In  many  parts 
of  the  empire  the  faithful  were  compelled  to  witness  the 
daily  scandal  of  the  incarnate  bread  and  wine  in  the  im- 
pure hands  of  a  man  vowed  to  fleshly  connections.  If 
the  marriage  of  the  bishop  would  bring  influence  in  its 
train,  would  bring  the  friends  and  funds  of  the  bride,  the 
noble  was  glad  to  encourage  it.     And  the  influence  of  the 


double  connection  became  a  motive  in  the  choice  of  bishops. 
The  married  candidates  had  usually  the  largest  facilities 
for  bribery.  Men  of  families  applied  for  places  in  the 
Church  to  get  rid  of  military  duty.  And  it  was  churlish 
and  cruel  in  them  to  leave  their  wives  behind.  Those 
who  went  into  the  Church  from  motives  of  policy  would 
be  troubled  by  no  conscientious  scruples,  and  they  had  no 
idea  of  suddenlv  becoming  monks.  But  the  reliance  of 
the  married  priesthood  was  upon  the  State.  The  Church 
never  looked  upon  the  offence  with  approval  or  indiffer- 
ence. It  saw  in  these  domestic  ties  not  only  a  violation  of 
the  Christian  rule  of  purity,  but  what  was  worse,  a  weak- 
ening of  the  single  attachment  to  the  central  power  of  the 
Church,  a  division  of  duties  not  wholesome  to  higher 
ecclesiastic  interests.  Remonstrances,  loud  and  bitter, 
against  the  growing  abuse  were  not  wanting.  Devotees 
from  the  cloister,  and  popes  from  the  hall  of  spiritual 
dominion,  protested  and  threatened.  But  in  numberless 
instances  priests  were  found  willing  to  preserve  their  mar- 
riage bonds  in  this  world  at  the  risk  of  damnation  in  the 
next.  If  they  put  away  their  wives  it  was  from  motives  of 
policy  and  not  for  conscience  sake. 


HILDEBRAXD.  169 


These  abuses  were  already  of  long  standing  at  the  mid- 
dle of  the  eleventh  century.  But  they  had  not  been 
viewed  with  indifference  in  those  places  where  the  tradi- 
tions of  early  Christian  purity  were  still  kept  alive.  In 
many  a  Benedictine  convent  were  prayers  offered  in  the 
secret  cell  that  God  would  restore  again  the  lost  estate  of 
the  Spirit  to  his  worldly  and  subjugated  Church,  In  many 
a  pious  heart  did  the  wickedness  of  the  priesthood  revive 
the  fear  of  a  new  destruction  like  that  which  fell  upon 
Israel.  But  in  one  famous  abbey  there  was  a  soul  to 
contrive  the  restoration  as  well  as  a  heart  to  lament  the 
sin.  In  the  cloisters  of  Clugny  was  conceived  the  plan  of 
a  new  Roman  Empire,  to  which  kings  should  bow,  and 
nations  bring  tribute,  whose  authority  should  be  from  God, 
and  in  which  spiritual  and  not  natural  succession  should 
be  the  order,  which  should  jointly  hold  the  sceptre  of  all 
earthly  dominion,  and  the  keys  of  all  heavenly  possessions. 

The  name  of  Hildebrand  the  Tuscan  liad  already  be- 
come famous  as  the  sign  of  a  sanctity  at  once  austere  and 
unwearied,  before  it  was  associated  with  genius,  ambition, 
and  consummate  and  skillful  daring.  The  Abbot  of 
Clugny  was  looked  up  to  with  wonder  as  the  model  monk 
of  a  degenerate  age.  But  his  destiny  was  higher  than  that 
of  a  simple  convent  ruler.  And  Providence  soon  brought 
in  his  way  the  means  of  fulfilling  the  tendencies  of  his 
nature  and  the  plans  of  his  soul.  The  ardent  Catholic 
had  long  been  disgusted  by  the  arrogance  of  worldly 
powers,  and  shamed  at  the  voluntary  baseness  of  those 
who  should  be  servants  of  God  alone.  He  had  seen  with 
indignation  creatures  of  the  Emperor  set  in  the  Papal 
chair,  and  the  office  of  holy  Peter  given  over  to  bargain 
and  vassalage.  But  he  made  no  rash  complaint,  and 
waited  the  time  which  he  foresaw  was  speedily  approach- 
ing. He  knew  his  strength,  but  he  would  not  waste  it. 
From  youth  till  the  middle  age  was  reached  he  watched  in 
his  convent  and  prepared  himself  by  the  experience  there 
for  the  burden  of  a  harder  rule. 

In  the  year  1048,  Bruno,  Bishop  of  Toul,  in  Germany, 
was  chosen  by  the  Emperor  Henry  III,  to  the  vacant  chair 
of  the  Papacy.  As  he  journeyed  towards  Rome  in  splen- 
did attire,  and  with  a  gorgeous  retinue,  he  found  the  gates 


170  HILDEBRAND. 

of  the  Abbey  of  Clugn}''  opened  wide  for  his  hospitable 
reception  and  he  entered  there  in  lordly  state,  with  the 
bearing  of  a  prince.  But  when  he  left  on  his  succeeding 
way  it  was  in  humble  gray  vesture,  as  a  penitent  without 
attendants,  with  bare  feet,  and  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim. 
For  Hildebrand  had  shown  him  that  the  chief  of  the 
Church  must  be  called  bv  God  and  not  chosen  bv  the  kins:, 
and  that  humility  was  a  better  preparation  than  pride  for 
the  office  he  was  about  to  take.  The  adviser  went  up  with 
the  pilgrim  bishop  to  the  Holy  City,  and  there  the  shouts 
that  welcomed  Pope  Leo  IX,  as  the  sent  of  God  to  an 
afflicted  people,  were  more  a  tribute  to  the  skill  of  Hilde- 
brand than  to  the  humility  of  his  companion.  The  Abbot 
did  not  return  to  his  convent,  but  staved  in  Rome  as  a 
Cardinal  and  a  priest,  and  became  the  adviser  of  the 
Papal  government,  as  he  had  been  the  counsellor  in  the 
Papal  election. 

The  first  period  of  Hildebrand's  power  and  activity 
lasted  precisely  twenty-five  years.  In  that  time  he  had 
seen  five  popes  raised  to  Peter's  seat,  and  all  of  them  by 
his  omnipotent  hand.  He  had  drawn  off  bishops  from 
their  allegiance  to  the  Empire  ;  as  legate  of  the  Church 
he  had  visited  and  judged  the  quarrels  of  the  temporal 
and  spiritual  power ;  and  ev^erywhere  had  gained  the  fame 
of  a  supernatural  endowment.  Men  said  that  he  could 
read  the  characters  of  all  on  whom  his  eves  misfht  chance 
to  fall  ;  that  he  could  exorcise  Satan  from  the  heart  of  the 
offender,  and  could  detect  in  the  look  of  the  culprit  all 
sin  against  the  Church.  His  warlike  plans  were  supposed 
to  be  aided  bv  lesfions  of  ansrels,  and  men  fell  down  be- 
fore  his  frowning  look  and  confessed  their  guilt.  No 
subordinate  priest  had  ever  exercised  such  power.  At  his 
instance  a  council  solemnly  decreed  that  henceforward  the 
College  of  Cardinals  alone  should  choose  the  head  of 
Christiandom,  that  on  one  side  the  Roman  people  were  to 
resio^n  forever  their  ancient  risrht  to  choose  their  own 
bishop,  and  on  the  other  the  Emperor  was  to  have  no  voice 
in  the  affair.  The  decree  of  that  council  still  remains  in 
force,  and  at  the  next  election  of  Pope  it  was  put  in  force 
when  the  nominee  of  the  Empire  was  set  aside,  and  Alexan- 
der II  was  chosen  by  Hildebrand  and  the  Cardinals.    Blood 


BILBEBEAND.  171 


was  shed  on  both  sides  before  it  could  be  settled  which 
should  be  fixed  as  vicar  of  God.  But  the  favor  of  heaven 
went  with  Alexander  and  his  advisers.  The  twenty-five 
years  which  Hildebrand  spent  as  the  virtual  minister  of 
the  Papal  dominion  was  only  a  preparation  for  his  more 
exalted  office. 

In  these  years  Hildebrand  had  successively  ascended 
the  several  steps  of  Cardinal,  Deacon,  Archdeacon,  Legate 
and  Chancellor  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  Already  more 
than  once  the  Apostolic  crown  had  been  proffered  to  him, 
and  he  had  put  it  aside.  But  now  his  time  had  come,  and 
it  was  in  the  great  Church  of  the  Lateran,  as  the  requiem 
died  away  over  Alexander's  body,  that  the  shout  of  the 
multitude  proclaimed  as  by  a  Divine  voice  that  the  former 
monk  of  Clugny  was  the  Vicar  of  Christ  upon  earth. 
Scarcely  had  the  shouts  died  away  when  the  choice  of  the 
Cardinals  was  announced  to  have  fallen  upon  the  same 
illustrious  person.  There  was  the  usual  amount  of  appar- 
ent humility.  The  gestures  of  Hildebrand  from  the  pulpit 
seemed  to  shun  so  momentuous  a  trust,  but  his  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  acclamations.  The  mitre  was  put  upon 
his  reluctant  head,  and  when  the  sad  pageant  that  had 
entered  for  a  burial-service  came  out  again  it  was  to  show 
Gregory  VII,  clad  in  his  gorgeous  Pontifical  robes  to  an 
exultant  people.  Never  had  Pontiff  been  announced 
whom  the  suffrages  of  all  admitted  to  be  more  natively  fit 
for  his  station.  His  genius,  his  purity,  his  courage,  his 
far-sighted  wisdom,  his  single  devotion  to  the  cause  of  the 
Church  even  his  enemies  confessed.  Not  suddenly  or  by 
any  usurpation  could  they  reproach  him  with  having  se- 
cured the  magnificent  prize.  But  his  life,  already  well 
prolonged,  seemed  a  providential  preparation  for  the  place 
and  for  the  place  at  that  hour.  No  choice  more  obnoxious 
to  the  Emperor  could  have  been  made.  He  knew  that 
the  modest  priest  who  solicited  his  approval  of  the  trust 
which  misfortune  rather  than  desire,  had  compelled  him 
to  take,  was  in  reality  his  most  dangerous  foe.  But  he 
dared  not  protest  against  such  a  choice.  And  the  world 
heard  with  wonder  and  the  Church  with  joy  that  Henry 
IV,  of  Germany,  had  approved  the  choice  of  a  Pope 
whose  whole  soul  was  devoted  to  humble  the  Imperial 
power. 


172  EILDEBRAXD. 


Before  proceeding  to  relate  the  decisive  struggle  be- 
tween the  Pope  and  the  Empire,  let  us  glance  at  the 
political  condition  of  the  German  world,  and  the  character 
of  its  principal  ruler.  The  Emperor  Henry  III,  at  his 
dying,  had  left  his  infant  son,  the  heir  to  the  crown,  to  the 
guardianship  of  a  mother  too  pious  to  be  wise,  and  too 
pure  to  escape  calumny.  Her  confidence  was  abused  by 
priests  and  her  credulity  was  despised  by  nobles.  The 
flatteries  of  her  ghostly  advisers  were  not  less  pernicious 
than  the  outrages  of  her  insolent  courtiers  who  felt  it  an 
insult  that  a  woman  should  sway  the  sceptre  of  the  Caesars. 
It  did  not  suit  the  plans  of  either  party  that  the  young 
prince  should  be  brought  up  under  such  gentle  and  pure 
influences.  Two  powerful  archbishops  joined  with  two 
powerful  dukes  to  separate  the  child  from  his  mother,  and 
to  secure  for  themselves  the  spoils  of  his  minority  and  the 
corruption  of  his  growing  years.  It  was  at  a  boating 
party  on  the  Rhine  that  the  boy  of  twelve  years  was  kid- 
napped by  the  strategem  of  this  holy  alliance,  and  severed 
from  his  natural  protector.  Their  lessons  to  him  of  de- 
bauchery, treachery,  and  cruelty,  during  his  luxurious 
captivity  he  faithfully  learned,  but  he  learned  to  hate  the 
teachers  and  remember  their  crime  toward  him.  They 
were  glad  to  escape  the  dark  return  which  they  saw  ap- 
proaching by  transferring  the  charge  of  their  royal  pupil 
to  Adalbert,  Archbishop  of  Bremen,  the  Wolsey  of  the 
eleventh  century. 

The  life  and  spirit  of  this  famous  prelate  has  all  the 
romantic  interest  of  the  life  of  him  who  made  the  vices  of 
the  English  Henry  the  ministers  of  his  own  ambition.  A 
great  English  writer  has  drawn  his  singular  portrait,  a 
composite  of  piety  and  profligacy,  of  learning  and  buf- 
foonery, of  wit,  and  vanity,  and  intrigue,  of  military  re- 
nown, and  political  skill,  which  had  hardly  a  rival  in  his 
age,  yet  fond  to  absurdity  of  the  emptiest  titles  and  the 
vainest  flatteries.  The  education  of  a  king  in  the  hands 
of  such  a  man  would  prepare  him  for  any  career  but  that 
of  a  wise  and  prudent  sovereign.  He  would  learn  the  art 
of  tyrannizing  more  than  the  principles  of  ruling.  And 
Henry  speedily  showed  by  his  wanton  insults  to  the 
patriotic  and  religious  sentiments  of  his  people  and  his 


IIILDEBRAND.  173 


utter  indifference  to  private  rights,  in  what  school  he  had 
been  trained.  The  grossest  vices  became  not  merely  his 
practice  but  his  boast.  The  wife  that  policy  rather  than 
affection  had  joined  to  him  he  treated  brutally.  And  not 
all  the  influence  of  his  handsome  person  and  his  liberal 
indulgence  to  every  kind  of  vice  could  prevent  the  op- 
pressed citizens  and  the  insulted  Christians  from  following 
him  with  curses  loud  and  deep.  The  curses  were  heard  at 
Rome,  and  the  successor  of  the  Caesars  was  startled  by  a 
summons  from  the  dying  Alexander  to  appear  in  person  at 
the  Papal  judgment  to  answer  to  the  grave  offences  charged 
against  him.  Only  faint  traditions  of  a  distant  time  re- 
corded a  demand  so  daring  and  so  preposterous.  Henry 
was  keen  enough  to  detect  the  master-spirit  in  so  bold  an 
act.  And  when  he  heard  that  the  ambitious  Hildebrand 
sat  in  Peter's  seat,  he  knew  that  the  time  had  come  for 
decisive  contest.  He  knew  that  in  the  impending  strife 
between  himself  and  his  rebellious  vassals  he  must  either 
submit  to  Rome  or  be  crushed,  that  he  could  dictate  no 
longer  to  the  Holy  See,  but  must  find  from  this  either  pro- 
tection or  enmity.  The  first  as  repulsive  to  his  pride,  as 
the  last  disastrous  to  his  fortune.  He  affected  to  treat 
with  contempt  the  Papal  summons,  but  he  trembled  when 
he  knew  that  the  jealous  eyes  of  the  new  Pontiff  were 
watching  his  intrigues,  and  the  listening  ear  was  open  to 
every  tale  of  corruption.  The  first  acts  of  Gregory  told 
the  Emperor  that  the  time  of  compromise  and  bribery 
was  over. 

Scarcely  a  month  had  passed  from  his  accession  as  Pope 
when,  at  the  suggestion  of  Gregory,  a  council  was  called 
at  the  Lateran  to  consider  the  serious  and  wide-spread 
profanation  of  a  married  priesthood.  The  deliberations 
were  short,  the  action  was  prompt,  positive,  and  rigorous. 
The  decree  went  out  that  no  sacred  office  should  be  cele- 
brated bv  anv  one  bound  in  wedlock,  and  that  wives  must 
be  sternly  and  forever  repudiated  by  those  who  would 
stand  at  the  altar.  The  decree  was  executed.  The 
anathemas  of  Rome  became  the  terrible  weapon  of  fanatic 
monks  in  their  denunciations.  The  lament  of  the  sufferers 
proved  unavailing.  Gregory  had  no  ear  for  any  petitions. 
He  wanted  no  words  of  remonstrance,  but  only  deeds  of 


1 7  4  niLDEBBANB. 


submission.  It  seemed  merely  a  measure  of  priestly  re- 
form, but  it  was  in  reality  a  blow  aimed  at  the  Imperial 
power.  For  it  was  the  first  step  towards  purginor  the 
Church  of  men  who  were  merely  retainers  of  the  State. 
It  was  the  married  priesthood  that  fed  the  vice  of  simony, 
and  purchased  of  the  ruler  his  good-will  and  protection. 
And  Henry  saw  that  when  this  most  glaring  abuse  was 
overthrown,  warfare  upon  the  rest  could  not  be  far  behind. 
The  decree  of  the  Lateran  became  a  law  to  the  Church. 
Henceforth  no  choice  lay  open  to  the  aspirant  for  holy 
orders.  The  servant  of  the  Church  ceased  to  know  the 
meaning  of  home,  and  became  a  voluntary  stranger  to  the 
strongest  of  all  earthly  ties.  For  eight  hundred  years 
now  he  who  has  been  the  depository  of  family  secrets  and 
the  counsellor  of  the  wife  and  husband,  of  young  men  and 
maidens  in  their  most  tender  relations,  has  been  sternly 
debarred  from  the  experience  of  the  joys  and  trials  he 
has  had  confided  to  his  ear.  In  his  household  no  children 
have  been  angels  to  sport  there,  while  living,  and  hover 
there  when  dead,  and  woman  has  been  a  menial  only, 
and  not  a  companion.  Severed  from  family  ties  the  priest 
had  only  his  single  duty  to  the  Church  and  its  orders. 

This  first  work  of  daring  innovation  accomplished, 
Gregory  turned  his  attention  next  to  the  venality  and  cor- 
ruption of  his  priesthood.  His  legates  went  out  into  the 
various  Catholic  States  to  investi2:ate  the  titles  bv  which 
sacred  offices  were  held,  and  to  dictate  to  knights  and 
sovereigns  what  should  be  their  just  relation  to  the  Church 
of  God.  The  rulers  of  barbaric  States  were  amazed  to 
learn  that  they  were  merely  viceroys  of  the  Rome  that 
their  ancestors  had  ravaged,  and  that  they  were  expected 
to  give  homage  to  the  power  from  which  once  the  tribute 
had  been  gathered.  The  people  of  France  were  informed 
that  every  house  in  the  realm,  from  king  to  peasant,  owed 
its  penny  to  Peter,  and  that  the  priest  should  not  buy  from 
the  prince,  but  should  receive  from  the  flock  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Lord.  It  became  the  pleasing  duty  of  the 
Papal  messengers  to  administer  oaths  of  allegiance  to 
those  who  had  exacted  priestly  tributes,  and  the  king's  son 
of  Russia  found  it  expedient  in  his  visit  to  Rome  to  de- 
clare that  he  should   hold  his   vast  paternal  realm  under 


HILDEBBAND.  1 7  5 


the  protection  of  the  Holy  Church.  The  bishops  learned 
that  their  contributions  must  no  longer  take  a  secular  di- 
rection, that  they  were  stewards  merely  of  sacred  revenues, 
and  were  to  render  the  account  only  to  him  who  was 
authorized  to  sanction  their  calling.  Those  whose  elections 
were  clearly  corrupt  were  removed  to  make  way  for 
humbler  men  from  the  cloister,  whose  poverty  and  zeal 
were  alike  devoted  to  the  service  of  the  Catholic  power. 
But  the  transfer  of  unconditional  allegiance  to  the  See  of 
Rome  was  usually  sufficient  to  allow  the  warlike  ecclesiastic 
to  keep  his  unsuitable  place,  Gregory  foresaw  that  there 
was  work  to  be  done  yet  in  the  field  as  well  as  the  cabinet. 
And  the  military  habit  of  his  priests  was  not  entirely 
without  value  in  his  eyes.  His  aim  was  not  so  much  to 
make  the  Church  spiritual  as  to  make  it  Catholic,  and  he 
was  willing  to  employ  the  arms  of  the  world  if  the  issue 
should  be  in  the  glory  of  God. 

It  was  a  critical  time  for  the  Emperor.  He  saw  himself 
placed  between  two  fires,  each  rapidly  advancing  and 
gaining  strength  in  their  rush.  On  one  side  were  his  re- 
bellious vassals,  desperate  under  his  multiplied  outrages  and 
oppressions,  and  ready  to  throw  off  a  yoke  as  shameful  and 
hateful  as  it  was  tyrannical  and  heavy.  On  the  other,  the 
stern,  inexorable  ambition  of  Rome,  that  looked  steadily 
upon  its  end,  and  no  human  power  could  turn  aside.  On 
one  side,  revolt,  on .  the  other,  the  Gorgon  eye  of  spiritual 
despotism.  One  or  the  other  of  these  forces  must  be 
made  his  friend,  else  his  destruction  was  inevitable.  He 
chose  that  which  would  save  his  power,  though  it  might 
humble  his  pride.  But  the  choice  was  not  made  until  he 
had  been  reduced  to  the  last  extremity,  until  his  army  had 
been  defeated  in  repeated  battles,  and  himself  forced  to 
flee  by  night  from  the  castle  in  which  he  was  beleagured. 
The  fugitive  then  coveted  the  favor  of  the  spiritual  despots. 
He  made  fair  promises  to  the  Pope,  which  were  repaid  by 
gracious  words  and  assurances  of  pardon  and  love.  He 
gave  some  substantial  offerings  to  the  Pope  which  were 
not  so  well  repaid.  Milan,  the  Cathedral  city  of  Northern 
Italy,  where  the  sacred  memory  of  Ambrose  still  lingered 
after  the  convulsions  of  seven  centuries,  was  surrendered 
over  to  the  Papal   Charge,  and  distinct  acknowledgments 


1/6  HILDEBRAND. 


of  submission  to  the  Holy  See  were  volunteered.  The 
vague  and  doubtful  language  of  the  Pope  mic^ht  be  va- 
riously interpreted  to  the  advantage  of  the  Emperor  or 
his  foes.  It  was  no  more  than  a  declaration  of  non-inter- 
vention, and  though  the  loyal  citizens  of  the  Rhine  pro- 
vinces understood  it  to  justify  their  defence  of  the  heredi- 
tary Sovereign,  the  Saxon  insurgents  with  their  newly 
chosen  Emperor,  found  in  it  no  command  to  lay  down 
their  arms  or  to  submit  to  continued  tyranny.  The  Pope 
had  gained  a  city  and  a  State  and  had  humbled  his  rival, 
but  he  sent  no  force  into  the  field  against  Otho  and  his 
rebel  hordes. 

The  mortified  Emperor  found  himself  soon  a  second 
time  at  the  mercy  of  his  rebellious  subjects,  with  the  addi- 
tional element  of  his  vassalage  to  a  man  that  he  hated. 
While  he  was  forced  to  promise  to  the  Saxon  chiefs  that 
their  rights  should  be  restored  and  the  exactions  of  his 
soldiers  no  longer  molest  them,  he  was  compelled  to  re- 
nounce all  right  to  the  election  of  priests  or  bishops,  and 
to  dismiss  from  his  Court  all  who  had  obtained  throus^h 
simony  ecclesiastical  office.  The  eccentric  bishop  of 
Bremen  was  suspended  from  his  See,  and  neither  the  shafts 
of  his  wit,  nor  the  ebullitions  of  his  rage,  could  move  the 
stern  determination  of  the  Most  Catholic  Head  of  the 
Church.  While  the  Emperor  waited  his  time  and  medi- 
tated plans  of  sure  revenge,  the  Pope  improved  his  time 
to  prepare  for  the  fortune  of  the  Emperor's  defeat  or  vic- 
tory. 

On  two  great  occasions  in  the  year  1075,  was  the  Te 
Deinn  laudamus  solemnly  sung ;  at  Worms,  on  the  Rhine, 
the  most  loyal  and  most  religious  of  cities,  when  to  the 
arms  of  Henry  and  his  allies,  the  insurgents  had  finally 
yielded  and  the  bloody  field  of  their  recent  conflict  had 
been  signally  avenged  ;  and  at  Rome,  when  the  second 
great  Council  of  Gregory,  the  Pope  had  solemnly  decreed 
that  all  spiritual  authority  resided  with  him  who  sat  in  the 
chair  of  Peter,  that  his  was  the  sole  power  to  establish 
dignities,  and  that  no  secular  lord  of  whatever  state  or 
honor  had  any  right  to  create  or  invest  the  servant  of 
God.  In  the  one  instance,  the  solemn  chant  was  only  a 
service  that  the  fortune  of  the  next  year  might  annul.     In 


EILDEBRAND.  i77 


the  other,  it  announced  an  act  of  sovereignty  that  no  wrath 
or  rebelHon  could  put  back  ag^ain.  For  the  first  time  the 
edict  of  the  masrnates  of  the  Church  was  recorded  that  it 
should  have  sway  upon  all  principalities  and  powers,  and 
that  it  was  divinely  commissioned  to  bind  and  loose  in  the 
policies  of  nations  as  well  as  the  private  salvation  of  men. 
The  mass  was  sung,  the  record  was  made  and  committed 
to  the  Father  of  Christendom  to  use  as  he  saw  fit.  In  the 
hands  of  Hildebrand  such  an  authority  could  not  lie  idle. 
The  occasion  for  its  use  was  near,  and  hardlv  had  the 
winter  of  the  vear  besfun  before  the  self-indulgent  Em- 
peror  of  the  West  was  startled  from  his  dream  of  revenge 
and  new  spoiliation  by  a  summons  to  appear  at  Rome  and 
show  cause  why  he  should  not  be  excommunicated  and 
deposed  for  so  many  crimes  committed  against  the  laws  of 
God  and  the  rights  of  the  Church.  Never  since  the 
sacrifice  of  Calvary,  had  so  daring  a  command  been  ut- 
tered by  a  Christian  priest.  The  world  shuddered  with 
fear  and  horror.  The  Church  looked  on  with  admiring 
awe.  The  great  forces  of  the  centuries,  fully  charged, 
had  now  reached  their  critical  point.  The  thunderbolt, 
crashing  fell,  and  its  rolling  echo  filled  with  amazement 
the  East  and  the  West,  arrested  the  Norman  in  his  ravages, 
and  startled  the  indolent  Frank.  No  ruler  was  safe  when 
such  a  summons  might  stop  him  in  his  course. 

But  the  amazement  of  this  act  of  unprecedented  daring 
was  changed  into  horror  at  a  still  more  sacrilegious  at- 
tempt, w^ien  it  was  announced  to  the  Church  that  an 
impious  hand  had  sought  to  kill  the  High  Priest  of  God, 
on  the  very  birth-night  of  the  Saviour  of  Men,  and  at  the 
very  moment  of  the  sacred  celebration,  that  the  Pontiff  of 
Christendom  had  been  assaulted  at  the  altar,  his  sacred 
blood  shed  upon  the  vestments  of  his  office,  his  person  out- 
raged, bound  with  cords,  and  dragged  to  captivity  in  his  own 
castle.  The  heroic  women  who  bound  up  his  wounds,  and 
the  brave  men  who  rescued  him  became  suddenly  Provi- 
dential angels  in  the  eyes  of  the  faithful,  and  the  Church 
far  and  wide,  rang  with  praises  to  God  for  his  timely  de- 
liverance, and  muttered  its  curses  upon  the  impious  king 
whose  weak  vengeance,  it  was  not  doubted,  had  instigated 
so  great  a  crime.     The  sympathy  of  the  world  was  turned 

12 


17S  BILBEBRAND. 


to  the  side  which  God  seemed  to  protect,  and  the  calm 
assurance  with  which  the  outraged  Pontiff  proceeded  to 
solemn  Christmas  rites  gave  evidence  that  he  was  guided 
by  an  Almighty  Power. 

The  summons  of  Gregory  to  the  Emperor  to  appear  at 
Rome  was  answered  by  the  vote  of  a  Diet  which  the  Em- 
peror convened  at  Worms.  After  enumerating  a  multitude 
of  scandalous  charges  against  the  Pope,  the  truest  of 
which  was  baseness  of  birth,  for  Hildebrand  was  a  car- 
penter's son,  like  his  Divine  Master,  and  the  most  in- 
famous of  which  was  that  he  worshipped  the  Devil,  it  was 
voted  unanimously  that  no  more  allegiance  was  due  to 
such  a  monster,  that  the  oaths  of  obedience  should  be 
abjured,  and  that  he  should  be  deposed  from  the  sacred 
seat  which  he  had  profaned.  A  long  list  of  names  were 
subscribed  to  this  manifesto  of  Imperial  defiance.  Bishops 
who  had  been  divorced  from  their  wives,  or  deprived  of 
their  revenues,  or  subjected  to  mortifying  penance,  gladly 
signed  this  parchment  of  downfall  to  their  oppressor. 
The  names  of  knights  and  abbots,  of  prelates  and  profli- 
gates, were  bound  in  a  common  league  to  overthrow  this 
enemy  of  human  rights  and  usurper  of  the  Divine  preroga- 
tive. An  envoy  was  sent  to  Rome  to  bear  this  dark 
commission  as  the  reply  to  Gregory's  presumptuous  de- 
mand. He  reached  the  citv  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those 
majestic  masses  which  had  already  become  part  of  the 
solemn  Lenten  Fasts  of  the  Church.  Gregory  was  on  his 
Pontifical  throne,  surrounded  in  the  vast  and  splendid  hall 
of  the  Vatican  by  the  throng  of  priests  and  princes  whom 
he  had  summoned  to  judge  in  the  name  of  God  the  great- 
est of  earthly  kings.  The  sonorous  mingling  of  choral 
voices  was  invoking  the  presence  of  the  Most  High  in  their 
deliberations.  Since  the  memorable  trial  at  Jerusalem 
some  thousand  years  before,  no  such  momentous  judgment 
had  been  witnessed  amons:  men.  It  seemed  to  realize 
that  predicted  day  when  the  great  of  the  Earth  should 
be  arraigned  before  the  bar  of  the  final  tribunal.  In 
trembling  wonder  the  assembled  throng  gazed  upon  that 
august  being  who  seemed  to  wield  before  them  the  swift 
sentence  of  God. 

The  throne  of  St.  Peter  became   now  in  its  awful  ma- 


HILDEBRAND.  179 


jesty  as  the  very  judgment-seat  of  the  Eternal.  All  the 
authority  of  heaven  and  earth  seemed  embodied  in  that 
emaciated  form  and  that  flashinor  eve.  The  envov  entered. 
His  manner  was  insolent,  his  words  were  few.  He  spoke 
to  the  Pope,  that  it  was  the  will  of  the  Emperor  and  the 
Italian  and  German  bishops  that  he  should  descend  from 
his  usurped  dignity.  He  spoke  to  the  vast  assembly  that 
the  Emperor  commanded  them  at  the  approaching  Whit- 
sunday to  receive  a  lawful  spiritual  father  from  his  hands. 
"Your  pretended  Pope,"  said  he,  "is  only  a  ravenous 
wolf."  Amid  the  shouts  of  rage  that  greeted  the  audacious 
harancrue,  and  the  gleamins:  swords  that  were  raised  to 
smite  down  the  intruder,  Gregory  descended  from  his 
throne,  took  the  missives  from  the  envov's  hand  and  then 
calmly  read  before  them  the  sentence  which  the  Imperial 
synods  had  pronounced.  In  words  of  eloquent  persua- 
sion he  urged  them  to  refrain  from  violence  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  that  duty  which  the  fortune  of  the  time  and  the 
Providence  of  God  had  imposed  upon  them.  He  im- 
plored, by  significant  gestures,  the  piety  of  the  Catholic 
to  endure  the  humiliation  of  the  mother,  for  Agnes,  the 
Empress,  sat  by  his  side.  And  then,  when  he  had  raised 
their  feelings  to  the  needful  point  of  awe  and  filled  their 
minds  with  majestic  thoughts  of  duty  to  God,  he  proceeded 
to  invoke  with  a  voice  clear  and  strong,  and  terrible  as 
that  of  Michael  the  Archangel,  "  the  holy  Peter,  prince  of 
the  Apostles,  and  Mary  the  Mother  of  God,  and  the 
blessed  Paul  and  all  the  saints  to  bear  witness,  while  for 
the  honor  and  defence  of  Christ's  Church,  in  the  name  of 
the  Holy  Trinity,  by  the  power  and  authority  of  Peter," 
he  interdicted  to  King  Henry,  son  of  Henry  the  Emperor, 
the  government  of  the  whole  realm  of  Germany  and 
Italy,  absolving  all  Christians  from  their  allegiance,  and 
declaring  him  anathema,  accursed,  "  that  the  nations  may 
know  and  acknowledge  that  thou  art  Peter,  and  that  upon 
this  rock  the  Son  of  the  living  God  hath  built  his  Church 
and  that  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it." 

We  might  here  rest  our  sketch  of  Gregory  and  his  in- 
fluence, since  here  the  culminating  point  of  Papal  claims 
and  Papal  daring  was  reached.  No  step  could  be  taken 
now  but  that  which  should  seek  to  make  war  upon  heaven 


i8o  EILDEBRAXD. 


and  to  subjugate  God.  Now  first  in  a  way  to  alarm  the 
nations  and  to  exhibit  the  reality  of  Roman  dominion  was 
the  promise  of  Christ  to  Peter  claimed  by  his  successor. 
In  a  thousand  years  from  the  time  when  the  Galilean 
fisherman  suffered  death  for  setting  forth  strange  gods  to 
disturb  the  faith  of  the  world,  had  the  God  that  he  de- 
clared announced  his  temporal  kingdom  and  indicated  his 
viceroy.  Now  the  thrones  of  the  world  had  become  as 
the  footstool  of  Christ.  The  millennial  sovereignty  was 
perfected,  and  the  dream  of  monks  for  ages,  the  far-off 
prophecies  of  Jewish  seers,  the  desire  of  all  the  holy,  the 
songs  of  angels  at  Bethlehem,  the  ancient  covenants  with 
Moses,  and  Abraham,  and  Noah,  seemed  all  fulfilled. 
Now  the  mountain  of  Jehovah  was  lifted  in  the  top  of  the 
mountains,  the  city  of  Universal  Empire  was  restored 
a2:ain,  and  the  Hisrh  Priest  was  the  o-rand  mediator  be- 
tween  God  and  man.  Now  the  Christian  virtues  seemed 
to  have  their  sufficient  work,  the  Beatitudes  were  inter- 
preted, to  the  meek  the  earth  was  given,  and  the  persecuted 
for  righteousness'  sake  enjoyed  the  foretaste  of  their  inher- 
itance. Now  the  symbol  of  the  lion  and  the  lamb  led 
together  by  the  little  child,  was  explained,  and  the  highest 
meaning  of  the  gift  to  cast  out  demons  and  possess  the 
world  was  opened.  Now  the  infallible  truth  and  sanctity 
of  the  Holy  Seat  seemed  to  be  vindicated,  and  no  earthly 
power  should  presume  to  guide  or  to  govern  the  decisions 
of  Christ's  Church  upon  earth.  The  declarations  of  all 
previous  Councils  sink  into  insignificance  beside  the 
grandeur  of  this  one. 

But  we  will  follow  yet  a  little  farther  the  triumph  of 
Gregory,  and  behold  the  sovereign  of  the  world  in  deeper 
humiliation  before  his  haughty  rival.  It  was  on  his  return 
from  a  marauding  expedition  into  Saxony,  flushed  with 
the  spoils  and  glory  of  vindictive  pillage,  that  Henry 
learned  the  awful  sentence  which  had  gone  out  against 
him.  He  saw  the  loyal  reverence  of  his  people  changed 
into  suspicion  and  aversion.  One  by  one  the  nobles  that 
had  sustained  him  fell  away.  His  army  dwindled  to  a 
body-guard.  Friendship,  and  kindred,  and  gratitude,  all 
seemed  to  wither  before  the  curse  of  God.  The  impious 
bishops  whom  he  suborned  to  utter  their  feeble  excommu- 


UILDEBRAND.  i8i 


nication  against  the  successor  of  Peter,  were  snatched 
away  one  by  one  by  the  speedy  Divine  judgments,  as  the 
people  deemed  them,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  period 
from  the  great  Roman  assembly,  the  Emperor  of  the  West 
found  himself  shunned,  despised,  and  forsaken,  an  alien 
in  his  father's  house,  and  an  apostate  to  all  the  faithful. 
A  Diet  was  summoned  to  choose  in  his  place  an  Emperor 
who  should  be  worthy  of  human  love  and  the  divine 
blessing.  It  met  at  Tribur  at  the  close  of  the  year.  From 
all  parts  of  the  land  the  call  of  Oregon,^  summoned  the 
princes  to  the  solemn  election.  In  vain  did  the  desperate 
monarch  sue  for  favor.  His  proposal  to  resign  the  actual 
and  retain  only  the  nominal  dignity  was  treated  as  a  cheat 
and  a  snare.  And  the  decree  went  forth  that  if  the  twenty- 
third  of  February  in  the  next  year  found  Henry  still  with- 
out the  pale  of  Catholic  communion,  another  should  be 
chosen  to  take  his  office.  It  was  a  decree  to  please  the 
proud  heart  of  the  Pontiff,  for  now  he  might  see  not  alone 
his  own  authority  established,  but  also  the  humiliation  of 
his  enemy.  He  might  not  only  launch  the  anathemas  of 
the  Church  against  the  offending  State,  but  might  literally 
set  his  foot  upon  the  neck  of  his  rival. 

Henry  was  but  twenty-five  years  old  when  the  sentence 
of  this  Diet  consigned  him  to  a  brief  exile  at  Spires,  to  enjoy 
for  a  few  weeks  the  empty  honor  of  an  Imperial  name, 
without  soldiers,  courtiers,  or  priests.  The  time  was  short. 
He  knew  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him  if  he  stayed 
there,  and  he  resolved,  with  a  heroism  worthy  of  his  an- 
cestry, to  make  a  personal  appeal  to  the  stony  heart  of  the 
merciless  Pontiff.  In  the  dead  of  winter,  with  no  attend- 
ant but  his  faithful  wife,  faithful  in  spite  of  his  insults  and 
wickedness,  and  their  infant  child,  scantily  clad,  he  crossed 
the  high  ranges  of  the  Alps,  encountering  the  most  fearful 
dangers,  and  suffering  unheard-of  hardships  from  cold, 
fatisiue,  and  hun2:er,  and  the  crueltv  of  those  whose  rever- 
ence  for  the  Church  had  extinguished  all  compassion  for 
the  outcast.  The  short  interval  of  hope  and  joy  that  the 
loyal  greetings  of  his  Italian  States,  where  the  Pope  was 
equally  hated  and  feared,  was  soon  changed  to  darker 
despair  as  he  heard  that  the  Supreme  Vicar  of  Christ 
refused  to  see  him   in  any  garb  but  that  of  the  most  lowly 


i82  HILDEBUAND. 


penitence.  His  royal  offers  all  were  spurned.  It  was 
not  for  an  accused  man  to  make  proposals,  but  to  submit 
himself  meekly  to  the  Holy  See.  The  Pope  could  not 
treat  with  so  great  an  offender ;  he  could  only  give  him 
pardon  and  absolution  if  he  should  j^rove  himself  worthy 
of  it. 

It  was  at  the  fortress  of  Canossa,  in  the  Apennines, 
belonging  to  the  most  Catholic,  as  well  as  the  most  learned 
and  accomplished  Matilda,  Countess  of  Tuscany,  that  the 
Head  of  the  Church  waited  for  the  complete  enjoyment 
of  his  triumph.  In  the  cold  month  of  January  when  the 
streams  were  frozen  and  trees  were  bare,  could  be  seen 
from  the  walls  of  the  fortress,  for  three  davs  a  kneelino: 
form  with  robe  of  thin  white  linen  and  naked  feet,  waiting 
at  the  gate,  hungry  and  emaciated,  waiting  at  the  gate 
which  did  not  oi3en.  Multitudes  looked  on  and  many 
hearts  were  moved,  but  none  dared  to  protest,  for  they 
felt  that  this  was  not  the  cruelty  of  man,  but  the  retribu- 
tion of  God.  On  the  fourth  day  the  penitent  was  admitted 
into  the  sacred  presence.  And  now  for  the  first  time 
since  the  struggle  began,  did  the  majesty  of  earth  and 
heaven  meet-  face  to  face  in  their  representatives.  The 
tall  and  noble  form  of  the  youthful  Henry  was  prostrate 
before  the  shrunken  frame  of  the  aged  monk.  Tears  of 
agony  and  shame  poured  from  the  eyes  of  the  one,  the 
tiash  of  triumph  and  vengeance  gleamed  from  the  eye  of 
the  other.  Who  may  conceive  the  tumultuous  emotions  in 
that  haughty  soul  as  he  beheld  before  the  unarmed  servant 
of  Christ  the  head  of  all  earthly  potentates  kneeling  and 
praying  ?  What  exultation,  as  one  by  one,  the  penitent 
declared  his  consent  to  every  act  of  aggression  or  insult 
that  had  come  from  the  Church  of  God  upon  his  crown, 
acknowledged  his  own  baseness,  consented  to  the  com- 
plete supremacy  of  his  Holy  Father,  to  hold  all  goods  and 
lands,  and  titles,  at  the  bidding  and  pleasure  of  his 
spiritual  master,  to  defend  every  papal  claim,  to  obey 
every  papal  command,  and  to  enforce  by  word,  and  by 
sword  every  papal  decree  !  What  grateful  and  malignant 
joy,  when  by  a  solemn  and  terrible  oath,  Henry  and  his 
friends  as  sponsors  for  him,  bound  themselves  under 
penalty  of  forfeiture   of  right  in  this  world  and  of  salva- 


EILDEBRAND.  183 


tion  in  the  next,  to  maintain  forever  obedience  absolute 
and  unconditional  to  the  Catholic  faith.  What  daring 
confidence  as  he  offered  to  the  reluctant  and  awe-stricken 
Emperor  the  sacred  bread  of  sacrifice.  Hear  the  narra- 
tion of  this  act  by  an  impartial  biographer.  "  When  the 
oaths  of  the  assembled  bishops  and  princes  had  been  taken, 
the  Pontiff  gave  to  the  Emperor  his  Apostolic  blessing, 
and  celebrated  the  mass.  Then,  beckoning  him  to  the 
altar  with  his  assistants,  and  holding  in  his  hand  the  con- 
secrated wafer,  Gregory  thus  addressed  him  : 

*'  For  a  long  time  have  I  received  letters  from  you  and 
your  partisans,  in  which  you  accuse  me  of  having  usurped 
the  Holy  Seat  by  corruption  and  of  having  committed 
both  before  and  since  my  installation,  crimes  which  would 
have  excluded  me,  according  to  the  canons,  from  entrance 
to  the  sacred  office.  I  might  justify  myself  by  the  wit- 
ness of  those  who  have  known  me  from  childhood,  and 
who  chose  me  to  this  place.  But  to  take  away  all  scandal 
I  turn  to  the  judgment  of  God  alone.  Let  this  body  of 
Jesus  Christ  the  Lord,  that  now  I  eat,  be  proof  of  my 
-innocence.  Let  the  Almighty  strike  me  dead  now,  if  I 
am  guilty  of  these  crimes."  He  ate,  and  paused  till  the 
joyful  cries  of  the  throng  had  ceased.  Then  turning  to 
Henry  again,  he  thus  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  sarcastic  com- 
passion :  "  My  son,  the  German  princes  have  never  ceased 
to  accuse  you  to  me  of  crimes  which  they  declare  to  render 
you  unworthy  not  only  of  royal  functions,  but  of  religious 
communion  and  of  social  life.  They  demand  your  instant 
judgment.  You  know  how  uncertain  are  human  judgments. 
Try  now,  after  me,  this  divine  decision.  Take  now  this 
other  portion  of  the  sacred  body  of  Christ,  and  prove  here 
your  innocence  by  eating  it  in  this  presence.  Then  will 
you  remove  all  scandal  from  your  name,  will  show  that 
you  have  been  calumniated,  and  will  make  of  me  and  of 
God  your  ally."  The  king  dared  not  meet  such  a  trial. 
His  audacity  forsook  him.  He  had  just  been  by  penance 
and  fasting  confessing  his  guilt  and  how  should  he  invoke 
the  witness  of  God  to  a  lie.  This  was  fit  closing  to  such 
an  extraordinary  scene.  The  annals  of  the  world  furnish 
nothing  more  complete  in  the  romance  of  its  sublimity. 
Gregory  might  well   as  the  sun  went  down  that  day,  as  his 


184  niLDEBRAND. 


long  strife  was  thus  so  gloriously  crowned,  have  used  the 
words  of  aged  Simeon,  though  in  a  different  spirit,  "  Lord, 
now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  for  mine  eyes 
have  seen  thy  salvation." 

We  may  close  at  this  point  our  sketch  of  Hildebrand 
and  his  influence  in  the  Catholic  Church,  for  here  is  ac- 
complished that  great  work  of  spiritual  subjugation  of  the 
temporal  power,  which  the  ages  had  been  slowly  preparing. 
The  subsequent  fortunes  of  Gregory  and  Henry,  gradual 
reaction  in  favor  of  the  royal  penitent  against  the  priestly 
despot,  the  shifts  to  which  the  Vicar  of  Christ  was  reduced 
to  sustain  his  daring  claim,  the  mingled  heroism  and  mis- 
fortune of  his  later  years,  his  flight  from  Rome,  and  his 
anguish  at  the  pillage  and  ruin  of  that  city  by  the  Norman 
hordes,  the  dignity  of  his  bearing  in  exile,  and  the  firmness 
of  his  death,  might  all  be  incorporated  into  a  narrative 
equally  touching  and  instructive.  Nor  have  we  space  here 
to  draw  the  character  of  this  greatest  of  all  the  Popes 
since  Leo  established  the  supremacy  of  Peter's  seat  above 
all  patriarchs  and  bishops,  or  to  show  how  far  the  elements 
of  intrigue,  fanaticism  and  ambition  were  mingled  with  his 
zeal  for  the  service  and  authority  of  the  Church  of  God. 
The  talent,  the  sincerity,  the  energ)',  the  piety  of  Hilde- 
brand his  bitterest  enemies  have  never  doubted.  His  was 
no  vulgar  or  selfish  ambition,  and  no  nobler  vision  than 
that  he  longed  to  realize  and  establish,  ever  passed  before 
priest  or  prophet.  Many  had  dreams  of  the  future  glory 
of  the  Church.  Hildebrand  made  it  present.  Many  had 
prayed  in  cloisters  and  cathedrals  that  corruptions  might 
cease  to  pollute  the  Christian  altar.  He  took  the  fan  in 
his  hand  and  purged  them  away.  His  gigantic  plan  was 
wide  as  the  circuit  of  his  dominion.  He  brought  the 
nations  into  harmony  with  the  spiritual  systems,  and  made 
the  greater  orbs  of  empires  fulfill  their  orderly  circuits 
with  the  lesser  lights  of  the  Church,  He  found  the  Church 
a  satellite  to  the  State  ;  he  left  it  in  the  centre.  From  him 
the  second  age  of  the  Catholic  power  may  be  reckoned. 
Henceforth  the  strong  Apostle  becomes  the  Rock  of  the 
State  as  well  as  the  Church,  the  minister  of  right  among 
men  as  well  as  pardon  from  God. 


ABEL  ART).  185 


VII. 

ABELARD   AND    HIS    AGE. 

The  sympathies  of  the  human  heart  go  always  with 
reform  and  progress.  Conservatism  may  enthrall  the 
reason  of  men,  but  it  cannot  captivate  their  deeper  senti- 
ments. We  may  admire  the  wis-dom,  we  may  respect  the 
prudence,  we  may  reverence  the  sanctity  of  him  who  would 
keep  all  things  in  their  place,  and  preserve  the  old  land- 
marks, but  the  soul  within  us  goes  with  him  who  dares  to 
prove  all  things.  We  may  obey  the  priest  in  the  temple, 
but  we  are  quickened  by  the  prophet  in  the  market-place. 
For  judgment  and  counsel  we  go  to  the  men  of  statutes 
and  precedents,  who  interpret  the  past,  and  defend  the 
recognized  faith.  For  inspiration  and  joy  we  go  to  the 
men  who  declare  the  future  and  open  the  long-neglected 
truth.  We  sit  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel,  but  we  shout  and 
weep,  and  burn  with  Paul.  The  conservative  spirit  cannot 
kindle  enthusiasm.  It  is  alwavs  calm  and  cool.  Its  ex- 
citements  ^re  forced  and  insincere.  It  uses  the  dialect 
sometimes  of  the  heart,  but  it  is  secretly  ashamed  of  bor- 
rowing what  is  not  congenial  to  it.  It  belongs  to  logic, 
but  not  to  intuition.  It  grows  as  an  exotic  in  the  soul,  by 
diligent  training;  it  will  not  spring  up  there.  There  are 
very  few  conservatives  by  nature.  Men  become  so  by 
contact  with  the  world,  by  observation  of  its  changes,  by 
experience  of  its  needs,  by  what  reason  proves  to  them. 
The  radical  changes  to  the  conservative  as  the  fire  of  youth 
dies  out,  and  prudence  comes  in,  in  her  homely  and  sober 
garb.  And  the  sympathy  which  men  of  middle  or  declin- 
ing life  pretend  to  feel  with  conservative  views  comes  from 
community  of  opinion  more  than  community  of  soul.  It 
is  agreement  more  than  it  is  union. 

But  with  progress  we  have  a  secret  sympathy,  even  where 
the  judgment  cannot   approve.     The  heart  of  the   world 


1 86  ABEL  ABB. 


justifies  the  reformer,  even  while  its  voice  cries  "crucify 
him."  There  is  a  thrill  which  the  bold  announcement  of 
new  truth  gives  that  all  the  pictures  of  the  past  cannot 
awaken.  He  is  our  hero  who  leads  us,  not  he  who  rules 
us.  The  general  is  always  more  popular  than  the  states- 
man, as  the  experience  of  our  land  has  abundantly  proved. 
He  who  opens  a  new  field  of  adventure,  conquers  new 
kingdoms,  enlarges  our  borders,  has  a  stronger  hold  on 
the  popular  heart  than  he  who  merely  goes  round  and 
fences  in  and  describes  what  we  have.  And  this  is  just 
as  true  in  the  realm  of  thought  as  of  action.  The  men 
whom  the  heart  of  the  \vorld  canonizes  are  the  men  who 
have  added  by  their  genius,  their  valor,  their  conjecture, 
something  to  the  world,  who  have  told  something  new ; 
such  men  as  Faust,  Galileo,  Newton  and  Fulton;  in  a  high 
sphere  such  men  as  Luther,  George  Fox,  Swedenborg 
and  Channing.  These  belong  to  the  Pantheon  of  the 
race,  and  will  live  long  after  the  relics  of  Catholic  saints 
have  ceased  in  their  efficacy.  The  heart  of  the  world 
goes  so  strongly  with  the  reformer  that  it  will  pardon  in 
him  many  defects,  passion,  prejudice,  malice,  even  profli- 
gacy. It  requires  of  the  conservative  that  he  shall  have 
weight  of  character  to  atone  for  his  want  of  zeal,  that  he 
shall  show  a  life  good  enough  to  keep  men  where  he  stands, 
that  he  shall  show  in  his  own  case  the  thing  already  at- 
tained to  be  sufficient  for  risrhteousness  and  honor.  A 
wicked  conservative  goes  down  quickest  of  all  men  to 
oblivion.  He  has  nothing  to  save  him,  to  hold  his  life 
either  to  the  reason  or  the  love  of  the  world.  One  age 
will  darken  and  annul  all  his  reputation.  But  the  private 
sins  of  the  reformer,  which  cloud  his  glory  to-day  are  for- 
gotten often  as  time  goes  on,  and  his  bold  prophecy  comes 
true. 

This  general  view  is  illustrated  in  the  case  of  two  emi- 
nent men  of  the  twelfth  century.  There  was  everything 
in  the  life  of  Bernard  to  kindle  a  love  for  him  personally. 
He  was  pure,  zealous,  and  self-denying,  a  far  holier  man 
than  his  great  rival,  and  yet  we  are  conscious  of  a  different 
feeling  in  reading  the  life  of  Abelard.  There  is  more  to 
lament,  more  to  despise,  yet  more  to  inspire  us.  We  feel 
that  with  all  his  misfortunes,  this  was  the  more  successful ; 


ABELARD.  187 


with  all  his  sins,  this  was  the  man  more  divinely  taught. 
The  life  of  Bernard  was  pure,  but  its  direction  was  wrong. 
It  tended  to  cruelty,  darkness  and  stagnant  faith.  The 
life  of  Abelard  had  weakness  and  frailties,  but  its  direction 
was  onward.  It  tended  to  freedom,  light,  and  living  truth. 
The  one  was  like  the  setting  sun  in  a  clear  sky,  making 
the  wide  earth  beautiful  with  long  crimson  rays,  but  drop- 
ping into  night ;  the  other  like  the  morning  sun  rising 
through  clouds  and  mists,  faintly  seen  at  first,  but  breaking 
to  create  the  day.  We  may  tell  all  the  story  of  one,  with 
no  apologetic  tone.  Yet  we  shall  fail  to  arouse  emotion  in 
the  hearts  of  the  hearers.  They  will  listen  with  interest ; 
but  will  feel  that  there  is  somethinsr  wantinor.  For  the 
other  we  must  apologize  all  along,  yet  his  life  cannot  be 
rehearsed  without  giving  him  a  place  in  our  love.  If  I 
should  not  succeed  now  in  awakening  your  sympathy  for 
the  name  and  work  of  Abelard  it  will  be  the  fault  of  the 
description  and  not  of  the  theme.  If  this  short  sketch  of 
the  prophet  of  reason  prove  dry  to  you,  you  can  go  to  the 
romances  that  have  been  written  around  his  name,  and 
find  the  true  fire  in  what  the  genius  of  modern  France  has 
done  to  vindicate  his  glory. 

In  the  village  of  Pallet,  in  one  of  the  Loire  provinces  of 
France,  one  notices  an  old  stone  cross  in  the  centre  of  a 
deserted  cemetery.  On  this  spot  stood  in  the  time  of 
Philip  I,  a  conspicuous  castle,  inhabited  by  Berenger,  one 
of  the  nobles  of  the  Court.  The  man  is  known  to  us  now 
by  the  fame  of  his  eldest  son.  The  place  is  memorable  as 
the  birth-place  of  Abelard  in  1079.  Quite  different  from 
the  domestic  training  of  Bernard  was  the  education  of  the 
young  Peter.  To  prepare  him  well  for  a  warlike  career, 
his  father  brought  to  him  all  the  advantages  of  scholastic 
training  that  the  age  could  furnish.  The  manuscripts  and 
the  masters  of  science  and  letters  were  alike  opened  to  his 
desire.  The  boy  speedily  surprised  his  parents  and  his 
teachers.  An  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge  revealed 
itself,  a  boundless  capacity  appeared.  In  a  little  while  he 
found  that  he  could  learn  no  more  by  staying  at  home. 
He  could  vanquish  the  elders  there  in  argument,  and  he 
had  exhausted  all  their  learning.  He  resolved  to  devote 
liimself  wholly  to  letters,  to  resign  his  baronial  heritage,  ancj 


1 88  ABELARD. 


to  travel  as  a  knight  errant  of  philosophy.  Such  an  adven- 
ture was  not  new,  but  in  his  case  it  was  attended  with 
many  strange  experiences.  In  place  of  combats  with  the 
lance,  would  he  hold  with  antagonists  by  the  way-side 
combats  with  the  tongue,  and  leave  them  fairly  at  their 
wits'  end.  All  over  the  country  he  went,  seeking  out  the 
most  famous  disputers,  learning  from  them  where  they 
would  teach  him,  wrangling  with  them  where  they  would 
argue  with  him,  and  never  yielding  till  he  had  vanquished 
them.  Controversy  was  his  delight,  and  no  question  was 
so  intricate,  so  mystical,  or  so  high,  that  he  did  not  plunge 
into  it.  The  problem  of  free  grace  or  the  Trinity  did  not 
frighten  him  more  than  some  jesting  proposal. 

In  this  wandering  life,  the  young  Peter  fell  in  with  many 
of  the  most  renowned  doctors,  among  others  with  the 
famous  Roscelin,  the  champion  of  Nominalism,  who  was 
silenced  by  a  Council  in  the  year  1092.  The  young 
student  pronounced  the  arguments  of  the  great  doctor 
ridiculous,  though  he  was  influenced  by  his  general  views. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  he  came  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
to  Paris.  This  city  had  already  become  the  Athens  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  alike  for  the  magnificence  of  its  art  and 
the  literary  fame  of  its  schools  and  cloisters.  The  school 
of  Our  Lady  was  the  central  spot  of  science  to  the  West- 
ern World.  The  youth  from  Britain,  from  Spain,  and 
from  Italy  came  there  to  learn  the  laws  of  mind  and  the 
rules  of  speech.  The  head  of  the  school,  who  was  also 
Archdeacon  of  Paris,  had  the  double  repute  of  being  the 
best  hand  at  the  trencher  and  the  most  cunning  master  of 
logic  that  the  Church,  in  which  both  these  classes 
abounded,  could  furnish.  Epicurus  and  Aristotle  shared 
in  his  life  the  empire  of  Christ.  His  social  quaUties  grace- 
fully set  off  his  intellectual  gifts.  To  him  and  his  school 
Peter  turned  as  by  natural  instinct.  Almost  at  once  he 
became  the  favorite  scholar.  William  saw  in  him  a  pupil 
who  could  understand,  remember,  and  use  the  lessons 
which  he  received.  His  fellow-pupils  too  could  not  help 
admiring  him  while  they  envied.  They  were  captivated 
by  his  beauty,  they  were  dazzled  by  his  flow  of  brilliant 
words,  they  were  silenced  by  his  rapid  and  subtle  plead- 
ings, and  in  a  little  time  none  remained  to  dispute  with 


ABELAED.  189 


him  but  the  master.  The  contest  did  not  frighten  him,  but 
the  veteran  was  amazed  to  hear  this  stripling  boldly  ques- 
tioning his  doctrines  and  exposing  before  the  crowd  of 
students  their  weakness  or  falsehood.  The  friendship 
which  he  felt,  was  soon  changed  to  jealousy  and  fear. 

The  division  of  studies  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  into 
the  Trivium  and  the  Quadrivium.  The  first  which  was 
authorized  by  the  Church  comprehended  the  three  branches 
of  Grammar,  Rhetoric,  and  Logic  ;  the  second,  which  was 
less  popular,  and  to  some  quite  forbidden,  comprehended 
the  four  branches  of  Arithmetic,  Geometry,  Astronomy, 
and  Music.  It  was  Peter's  ambition  to  be  master  of  all 
together,  and  while  he  attended  the  sessions  of  the  canon- 
ical school  and  wrangled  with  William  there,  he  took 
private  lessons  in  the  mathematics  of  a  certain  obscure 
but  skillful  teacher.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  his  progress 
in  this,  and  declared  that  nature  had  deprived  him  of  the 
gift  of  computing  numbers.  It  was  a  coarse  joke  which 
his  teacher  made  about  his  superficial  study,  that  gave  him 
the  surname  of  Abelard,  which  he  ever  afterwards  bore. 
When  his  fame  was  established,  this  surname  was  derived 
from  a  French  word  meaning  bee,  and  was  taken  as 
symbolical  of  his  industry,  sweetness,  and  power  to  sting. 

Abelard  could  not  rest  long  in  the  humble  position  of  a 
learner.  He  longed  to  teach  and  to  rule,  and  he  proclaimed 
his  purpose  of  establishing  at  Melun,  a  royal  city,  a  rival 
school  to  that  in  Paris.  In  spite  of  jealousies  and  in- 
trigues, in  which  his  master  was  not  ashamed  to  share,  he 
carried  his  point,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  the  son  of 
Berenger  announced  himself  to  the  world  as  a  teacher  of 
all  the  sciences  and  ready  to  maintain  his  ground  with  the 
wisest.  But  this  first  experiment  was  soon  put  to  an  end 
by  the  breaking  health  of  the  young  doctor,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  leave  the  renown  he  had  gained  and  the  com- 
pany that  he  had  gathered,  to  seek  strength  and  renewal 
on  the  shores  of  his  native  province. 

Some  years  now  passed  of  travel  and  various  study. 
But  the  tidings  which  he  heard  in  the  year  1108,  that  his 
old  master  had  retired  from  the  school  in  Paris  to  become 
the  abbot  of  a  neighboring  convent,  brought  Abelard  to 
Paris  again.     The  passage  of  time  had  matured  his  powers, 


i9<3  ABELABD. 

and  now  he  seemed  to  be  a  fitter  match  for  the  man  whom 
his  questions  had  before  insulted.  William  was  a  zealous 
Realist.  He  believed  in  the  fullest  manner  that  ideas 
were  realities,  that  names  were  things,  that  man  existed  as 
much  as  men,  that  universals  were  as  positive  beings  as 
particulars.  To  him  there  were  no  common  or  abstract 
names.  The  essence  of  the  whole  entered  into  every  part. 
The  abstract  sheep  or  horse  was  to  be  found  in  each 
separate  individual  of  the  species,  yet  had  an  independent 
life  of  its  own.  Abelard  had  early  leaned  to  the  Nominal- 
ist view,  and  his  reason  seemed  to  justify  his  early  teach- 
ing. He  brought  up .  arguments  against  the  views  of 
William,  which  showed  how  sophistical  and  ridiculous  this 
was.  *' If  the  race,"  said  he,  "is  the  essence  of  the  in- 
dividual, if  man  is  an  essence  entire  in  every  man,  and 
the  special  person  is  only  an  accident,  it  follows  that  this 
essence  is  at  the  same  time  entire  in  every  man  at  once, 
that  when  Socrates  is  at  Athens  and  Cicero  at  Rome,  it  is 
all  with  Socrates  in  one  place  and  all  with  Cicero  in  the 
other.  In  like  manner,  the  universal  man,  being  the 
essence  of  the  particular,  is  the  particular  man,  and  carries 
the  particular  with  him.  So  that  when  he  is  at  Rome  with 
Cicero,  Socrates  must  be  there  too,  and  when  he  is  at 
Athens  with  Socrates,  Cicero  must  be  there.  In  other 
words,  that  Socrates  and  Cicero  must  be  in  the  same  place, 
in  one  another,  identical,  in  fact,  with  one  another. 

The  contest  between  Nominalism  and  Realism  was  at- 
tended by  all  the  passion  and  hatred  which  mark  con- 
troversy everywhere.  There  is  no  humiliation  more  galling 
to  a  teacher  than  to  have  the  weakness  of  his  doctrine  ex- 
posed, and  though  the  tables  were  so  thoroughly  turned 
that  William  found  it  necessarv  to  nominate  Abelard  to 
his  vacant  chair  in  the  school  of  Paris,  and  to  become 
even  one  of  his  auditors,  he  did  not  learn  to  love  the  man 
who  had  supplanted  him.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  listen 
meekly  to  the  words  of  his  former  pupil.  He  made  up  by 
slanders  what  he  could  not  accomplish  by  pleading. 
He  suborned  false  witnesses  airainst  the  character  of 
Abelard,  and  at  one  time  drove  the  great  teacher  from  his 
place.  But  a  new  school,  founded  on  Mt.  St.  Genevieve, 
spread  more  widely  his  renown.     His  enemies  were  awed 


ABELARD.  191 


by  his  daring  and  confounded  by  his  eloquence.  A  young 
monk,  who  was  set  on  to  encounter  the  giant,  as  David  went 
out  to  Goliah,  found  victory  here  not  so  easy.  Abelard's 
course  was  steadily  upward.  One  by  one  his  enemies 
were  silenced.  William  of  Champeaux  went  off  to  die  in 
a  distant  convent.  No  new  doctor  arose  to  dispute  with 
Abelard  the  palm.  He  taught  everything,  and  except  in  the- 
ology, was  admitted  to  be  perfect  in  everything.  He  was 
a  dictator  in  the  republic  of  letters.  He  had  read  all  the 
known  works  of  ancient  lore,  he  could  repeat  from  any  of 
the  fathers  of  philosophy,  he  could  endure  the  schoolmen, 
and  he  gloried  in  the  arguments  of  the  Greek  wise  men. 
Philosophy  was  his  chief  delight.  Aristotle  was  his  master, 
and  his  highest  skill  was  used  in  interpreting  the  Stagirite 
to  the  crowd  of  students  from  all  lands  who  surrounded 
him.  Plato  he  eulogised,  but  Aristotle  he  quoted  and 
leaned  upon.  The  dry  categories  of  this  master  he  could 
enliven  by  fine  illustrations  from  the  Latin  poets,  Horace, 
Ovid,  and  Virgil,  and  open  the  mysteries  of  the  Greek  to 
the  clear  vision  of  the  Middle  Age  students.  At  the  asre 
of  thirty-four  Abelard  was  confessed  the  finest  scholar  and 
the  greatest  teacher  of  the  civilized  world.  That  same 
year  a  young  Cistercian  monk  was  planting  in  Clairvaux 
his  famous  convent. 

The  pride  and  arrogance  of  Abelard  grew  with  his  suc- 
cess. There  was  no  rival  for  him  in  dialectics,  but  there 
was  one  science  which  he  did  not  pretend  to  teach.  He 
had  not  profanely  ventured  upon  the  forbidden  ground  of 
theology.  This  was  the  province  of  monks  and  priests, 
and  Abelard  had  vet  no  attraction  to  the  religious  life. 
The  master  in  this  science  in  France  was  Anselm  of  Laon, 
a  namesake  and  a  pupil  of  the  great  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. He  taught  in  Paris  for  a  while,  but  afterwards 
retired  to  Laon,  where  for  many  years  he  had  expounded 
theology  to  great  throngs  of  students.  Abelard  heard  of 
his  fame  and  determined  to  try  for  himself  if  it  were  in- 
vincible. He  went  to  Laon.  But  the  famous  teachings  of 
Anselm  seemed  to  him  thin  and  merely  showy,  a  fine  tree, 
with  nothing  but  leaves  on  it.  "  When  he  lighted  his  fire," 
says  Abelard,  "he  mad'e  smoke  enough,  but  no  light."  He 
could  not  bear  very   long  to  sit  under  this  man's  shadow. 


192  ABELARD. 


He  became  negligent   at  the  lectures,  and  showed  visibly 
his  contempt  both  for  the  teacher  and  the  doctrine.     The 
pupils  of  Ansel m  were  mortified  and  annoyed  that  so  young 
a  man  should  treat  in  such  a  way  a  great  divine.     One  of 
them  asked   him  one  day  jestingly  what  he  who   had  only 
studied   natural  science  thought  about  the  divine  science. 
He  answered   that  he  knew  no  science  better   than  that 
which  taught  how  to  save  the  soul ;  but  that  he  wondered 
much    that    intelligent    men    could     not    understand    the 
Father  from  their  own  writings  without  any  master.     They 
laughed   at  him   and   defied   him  to  show  what   he   com- 
mended.    He  agreed  to  the   trial.     "Show  me,"  said  he, 
'*  the  hardest  passage   of  your  Scriptures."     The  book  of 
Ezekiel  was  handed   to  him,  which  passed  for  the  darkest 
of  Holy   Writ.     Abelard   accepted  it,   and   appointed  the 
next    morning  for   his    lesson    of   interpreting    the    book. 
They  remonstrated   with   him   for   taking   so  short  a.  time, 
plead   his  inexperience,  the  greatness  of  the  task  and  the 
amount  of  research  required,  t-o  induce  him  to  delay.     "  I 
am  not  used,"  said  he,  "to  follow  custom,  but  to  obey  my 
own  genius."     He  added  that   he  would  break  the  agree- 
ment if  they  did   not  come  at   the  time  appointed.     They 
came,  expecting  failure  from  the  foolish  rashness.     How 
could  such   a  tyro  interpret   in  a  day  what  took  long  years 
of  study  for  gray-haired  wisdom  to  accomplish  !     But  they 
were    first    amazed,   then    captivated,  and    then    inspired. 
They  crowded   around   him   to   make   him  write  down  his 
words.     They  wrote   them  again   from   his   copy.      They 
made   him  their  teacher  in   place   of  Anselm.      And  the 
wrathful  Archdeacon   could  only  be  dumb  at  such  strange 
effrontery.     He   returned   to  Paris  the  recognized   master 
in  the  greatest  of  human   sciences,  and  the  schools  of  the 
Church  now  welcomed   and  craved  his  lessons.     He  rose 
too  high  for  env^y.     The  picture  of  his  influence  at  this 
period  when  he  taught  in  the  Cite  in  a  house  still  standing, 
which  tradition  points  out,  is  very  graphic.     "  In  the  broad 
shadow  of  five  churches  aiid  the  cathedral,  among  sombre 
cloisters,    in  vast   halls,   on  the   turf    of   the    court-yards, 
moved  around   the   sacred   tribe,  who  seemed   to  live  for 
science   and  faith,  and  were  pressed  alike  by  the  lust  of 
power  and   the  love  of  controversy.     By  the  side  and  be 


ABELAEB,  193 


neath  the  watch  sometimes  jealous,  often  feeble,  of  the 
priests,  was  stirring  continually  this  population  of  students 
of  all  ranks,  of  all  callings,  of  all  races,  of  all  countries, 
which  the  European  fame  of  the  Parisian  school  had 
drawn  tosfether.  In  this  school,  in  the  midst  of  this  at- 
tentive  and  obedient  nation,  was  seen  often  passing  a  man 
of  broad  forehead,  bold  and  lively  glance,  noble  gait, 
whose  beauty  had  not  lost  its  youthful  bloom,  while  it 
bore  the  marked  features  and  the  browner  tint  of  complete 
manhood.  His  sober  but  careful  dress,  the  severe  elegance 
of  his  person,  the  simple  grace  of  his  manners,  now 
affable,  and  now  lofty,  that  imposing,  but  easy  attitude, 
and  that  indolent  neo-liorence  which  shows  the  confidence 
of  success  and  the  habit  of  command,  the  respectful  bear- 
ing of  his  attendants,  proud  towards  all  but  him,  the 
curious  eagerness  of  the  crowd  who  fell  back  to  make 
room  while  they  pressed  around,  when  he  went  or  returned 
to  his  dwelling,  with  his  disciples  still  excited  by  the  words 
of  his  teaching,  all  announced  a  master,  most  powerful  in 
the  hall,  most  dear  in  the  city,  most  illustrious  in  the  world. 
Everywhere  men  talked  of  him.  From  the  most  distant 
countries  men  thronged  to  hear  him.  Rome  even  sent  her 
auditors.  The  rabble  of  the  streets  stopped  to  look  at 
him  as  he  passed,  householders  came  down  to  the  thres- 
holds of  their  doors,  and  women  drew  back  the  curtain 
from  the  pane  of  their  little  window.  Paris  had  adopted 
him  as  her  son,  had  taken  him  for  her  jewel  and  her 
torch." 

It  was  a  proud  and  splendid  position.  We  cannot  won- 
der that  one  who  stood  in  the  centre  of  such  triumphs  and 
such  applause,  should  deem  himself  almost  a  divine  man. 
There  was  nothins:  on  earth  for  him  to  envv.  He  looked 
around  and  could  discover  no  one  wiser,  or  more  popular, 
or  more  powerful  over  the  minds  of  men  than  he.  Free 
to  inquire,  he  was  also  free  to  proclaim  truth.  He  could 
venture  to  differ  from  doctors,  could  claim  even  when 
priests  were  by,  to  speak  with  the  authority  of  an  Apostle, 
Wealth  rolled  in  upon  him  from  the  five  thousand  students 
who  would  pay  any  price  for  the  privilege  of  hearing  such 
a  master.  He  seemed  to  have  reached  a  secure  and  im- 
pregnable   eminence,   whence   nothing    but   his    own    will 

13 


194  ABELARD. 


could  draw  him  down.  But  his  reign  was  short.  For  the 
passion  which  Bernard  was  careful  so  early  to  extinguish, 
drew  down  the  great  teacher  in  the  maturity  of  his  years. 
When  Abelard  stooped  to  love,  then  he  ceased  to  rule. 

Had  I  time  to  relate  here  the  storv  of  the  loves  of 
Heloise  and  Abelard,  this  would  not  be  the  place  to  do  so. 
It  is  a  story  romantic  as  any  of  the  knight-errant  adven- 
tures. There  is  a  beauty  about  it  that  fascinates,  a  pathos 
that  moves,  and  a  tragedy  that  repels  the  reader.  More 
than  one  tragic  story  has  told  us  what  danger  there  is  to 
the  heart  of  the  master  when  the  pupil  is  young,  accom- 
plished, pure,  and  beautiful.  But  we  must  pass  over  the 
whole  detail  of  passion,  infatuation,  disgrace,  and  remorse, 
those  hours  of  high  communion,  mistaken  for  inspiration, 
but  felt  to  be  bliss,  that  clandestine  marriage,  of  which 
the  clear  eye  of  Heloise  saw  the  sure  misfortune  and  the 
bitter  fruit,  the  terrible  revenge  that  was  taken,  the  shame 
and  despair  that  made  of  the  man  a  monk  and  the  woman 
a  nun  forever.  All  this  seems  like  an  episode  in  the  life 
of  Abelard,  like  a  long  and  troubled  dream,  now  sweet, 
now  sad,  now  startling.  And  yet  this  episode  is  the  seal 
of  Abelard's  immortal  fame.  For  the  world  knows  him 
now  as  his  name  is  joined  to  the  softer  name.  Their 
letters  are  read  together  as  models  of  what  a  tender  and 
beautiful  correspondence  should  be,  and  their  names  are 
inscribed  together  on  the  chief  stone  of  pilgrniiage  in  the 
chief  burial-place  of  Europe. 

To  the  great  Abbey  of  St.  Denis  went  the  wretched 
Abelard,  in  the  fortieth  year  of  his  age,  to  bewail  in  silence 
his  broken  heart  and  his  sad  destiny.  But  misfortune  had 
not  yet  crushed  out  of  the  man  his  native  spirit.  He  was 
fated  to  live  nowhere  in  peace.  The  scandalous  life  of  the 
monks  aroused  his  wrath  and  he  felt  moved  to  rebuke  the 
powers  above  him.  The  issue  was,  that  he  became  a 
nuisance  in  the  convent,  and  his  brethren  to  get  rid  of  him 
there,  urged  him  to  take  up  again  the  work  of  teacher, 
which  he  believed  himself  to  have  forsaken  forever.  Sadlv 
he  was  forced  to  consent,  and  the  poor  monk  could  see  with 
pride  that  though  the  world  had  heard  widely  of  his  shame, 
it  had  not  forgotten  his  power.  Three  thousand  students 
came  at  the   opening  of  his  school.     The  establishments 


ABELARB.  195 


around  began  to  wane.  Now  envy  and  hatred  began  to 
have  their  way,  for  it  was  no  longer  the  great  scholar 
whom  the  Church  and  State  protected,  but  a  mean  private 
man  who  was  setting  himself  up  as  a  master  in  theology. 
The  storm  rose  around  him.  He  was  accused  of  heresy, 
of  arrogance,  and  of  blasphemy,  of  profaning  by  worldly 
science  the  truth  of  God,  of  setting  philosophy  above 
faith.  They  told  how  he  placed  the  Grecian  sages  on  a 
level  with  the  Christian  saints,  and  held  that  the  philoso- 
phers of  heathenism  might  be  saved  as  well  as  the  disciples 
of  Christ,  how  he  dared  even  to  discuss  the  ineffable 
Trinity,  and  to  reason  into  abstract  attributes  the  persons 
of  Father,  Son  and  Spirit.  The  cry  was  loud,  the  warfare 
was  vigorous.  The  old  spirit  of  Abelard  was  roused  at 
first  and  for  a  little  while  he  braved  the  storm.  He 
met  their  charges  of  sophistry  by  a  challenge  to  argument, 
he  flung  back  sarcasm  against  their  abuse,  referring  to  the 
old  fable  of  the  fox  and  grapes,  when  they  spoke  of  the 
worthlessness  of  his  science.  But  his  argument  had  no 
weight  upon  minds  so  prejudiced,  and  his  sarcasm  only 
stung  them  to  madness.  His  profession  of  orthodoxy 
could  not  quiet  the  excitement.  He  was  summoned  before 
a  council  at  Soissons  to  defend  his  views,  to  hear  his  sen- 
tence. It  was  an  imposing  spectacle.  The  great  men  of 
the  French  Church  were  all  assembled,  and  the  legate  of 
the  Pope  was  there.  It  was  a  new  position  for  Abelard  to 
be  placed  in.  He  saw  enemies  all  around  him,  himself 
shunned  as  a  denier  of  God,  and  doomed  as  a  foe  to  the 
truth.  He  was  accused  of  denying  the  Trinity.  He 
showed  by  extracts  from  his  writings  that  he  had  asserted 
it  with  vigor,  had  sustained  the  opinions  of  the  wisest 
Church  fathers,  of  Origen,  of  Augustine,  even  of  Athana- 
sius,  and  that  he  had  kept  close  too  to  the  terms  of  Scrip- 
ture. But  the  crowning  sin  was  not  that  he  had  reasoned 
about  it  unjustly,  but  that  he  had  reasoned  at  all.  His 
persuasive  eloquence,  which  had  captivated  and  well  nigh 
converted  some  prominent  members  of  the  council,  was 
overruled  by  the  majority  of  voices  ;  he  was  condemned 
to  throw  his  own  book  into  the  flames. 

This  closing  scene  of   the  council,   as  it  is  described, 
seems  almost  ludicrous.     "While   Abelard   sadly   looked 


19^  ABELARD. 


on  upon  his  burning  roll,  the  silence  of  the  judges  was 
suddenly  broken,  and  one  of  the  most  hostile  said  in  an 
undertone  that  he  had  read  somewhere  that  God  the 
Father  was  alone  omnipotent."  Amazed,  the  legate  ex- 
claimed, "I  cannot  believe  it.  Even  a  little  child  could 
not  find  such  an  error,  when  the  faith  of  all  the  Church 
holds  to  and  professes  three  Omnipotents."  At  these 
words,  a  scholastic  teacher,  Tenie  by  name,  laughed  and 
whispered  loudly  the  words  of  Athanasius  in  the  creed, 
"and  yet  there  are  not  three,  but  only  one  omnipotent 
being."  Reproached  for  this  untimely  remark,  he  boldly 
quoted  the  words  of  Daniel,  "Thus,  senseless  sons  of 
Israel,  without  judging  or  knowing  the  truth,  you  have 
condemned  one  of  your  brethren.  Return  to  judgment, 
and  judge  the  judge  himself,  for  he  is  condemned  from 
his  own  mouth."  Then  the  Archbishop  rising  justified 
as  well  as  he  could,  by  changing  the  terms,  the  idea  of  the 
legate,  and  tried  to  show  that  the  Father  was  omnipotent, 
the  Son  omnipotent,  the  Spirit  omnipotent,  and  that  who- 
ever denied  this  ought  not  to  be  listened  to,  but  that  any 
brother  who  could  declare  his  faith  in  this  might  be  heard 
about  the  rest  with  calmness.  Abelard  began  to  breathe 
more  freely,  delighted  to  have  the  chance  of  professing 
and  expounding  his  faith,  fie  took  hope  and  courage. 
The  memory  of  St.  Paul  before  the  Areopagus  and  the 
Jewish  council  came  into  his  mind.  If  he  could  only  tell 
them  his  faith  he  would  be  saved.  His  adversaries  saw 
his  scheme  and  cried  out  that  all  they  wanted  was  that  he 
should  repeat  the  creed  of  Athanasius.  And  as  he  might 
have  said  that  he  did  not  know  it  by  heart,  they  put  a  copy 
at  once  before  his  eyes.  It  was  an  ingenious  trick.  Abe- 
lard read  what  he  could  of  it,  but  the  trial  was  fatal.  He 
was  condemned  and  sent  into  imprisonment  in  the  convent 
of  St.  Medard. 

But  the  sentence  of  the  council,  though  a  triumph  for 
the  priesthood,  was  not  approved  by  the  popular  voice. 
The  crowd  of  students  clamored  for  the  release  of  their 
master.  They  complained  of  the  iniquity  of  the  sentence. 
They  denied  the  right  of  the  trial.  Their  pressing  de- 
mands did  not  render  Abelard  contented  with  his  compul- 
sory monastic  life.     He  was  willing  to  be  a  monk,  but  not 


ABEL  ABB.  197 


upon  compulsion.  He  could  endure  convent  life,  but  not 
in  a  subordinate  place.  His  escape  was  soon  made,  was 
connived  at  by  the  civil  authorities,  and  the  monks  his 
oppressors  were  glad  to  compromise  by  allowing  him  to 
live  a  hermit  life  while  he  owned  his  allegiance  to  their 
convent. 

It  was  a  wild  place  to  which  Abelard  retired,  the  coun- 
terpart of  the  valley  of  Clairvaux.  The  fields  there 
would  bear  the  harvests,  but  the  spot  was  little  visited  by 
human  feet.  It  was  on  the  borders  of  a  tributary  of  the 
Seine.  Here  he  built  a  little  oratory  of  straw  and  reeds, 
and  dedicated  it  to  the  Trinit}^,  hoping,  as  he  professed, 
to  pass  the  rest  of  his  troubled  life  far  from  the  haunts  of 
men.  But  he  could  not  so  escape  from  his  fame.  Though 
his  desert  cell  was  ninety  miles  from  Paris,  it  was  soon 
found  out,  and  the  youth  of  the  city  flocked  out  to  encamp 
around  it.  Little  huts  of  innumerable  scholars  soon  en- 
vironed this  oratory  of  the  recluse.  Some  pitched  their 
tents  to  be  ready  to  follow  if  he  should  flee  again.  All 
were  contented  to  lie  on  the  bare  sfround  and  to  live  on 
the  rudest  fare  if  thev  might  thus  enjov  the  lessons  of  this 
divine  teacher.  It  was  a  wild  joy  that  Abelard  felt  in  find- 
ing this  turn  in  his  fortune.  He  might  feel  that  even  poverty 
and  disgrace  could  not  destroy  him.  He  seemed  to  be  living 
the  life  of  St.  Jerome  over  again.  His  least  want  was 
anticipated  by  his  ardent  disciples  and  even  priests  brought 
out  to  him  their  offerinsis.  His  hut  of  reeds  was  soon  re- 
placed  by  a  more  solid  structure  of  wood  and  stone.  The 
j^roup  of  emblematic  figures  by  which  it  was  adorned 
served  at  once  to  express  the  soundness  of  faith  and  the 
shrewdness  of  science  of  the  skillful  master.  From  a 
single  block  were  carved  the  three  Divine  persons,  each 
with  human  form.  The  Father  was  placed  in  the  middle, 
clothed  in  a  long  robe,  a  band  hung  from  his  neck  and 
was  crossed  upon  his  heart,  a  cloak  covered  his  shoulders, 
and  extended  also  to  the  other  two.  From  the  clasp  of 
the  mantle  on  the  right,  hung  a  gilt  band,  with  the  words, 
Thou  art  my  Son.  The  Son  sat  on  the  right  of  the  Father 
with  a  similar  robe,  but  without  a  girdle,  with  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  to  the  left  a  band  with  this 
inscription,  Thou  art   my  Father.     On  the  other  side  the 


198  A  BELAUD. 


Holy  Spirit,  in  a  similar  attitude,  bearing  this  inscription, 
I  am  the  breath  of  both.  The  Son  bore  the  crown  of 
thorns,  the  Holy  Spirit  a  crown  of  olive  branch,  the 
Father  a  close  crown,  and  his  left  hand  held  a  globe. 
These  were  the  attributes  of  Empire.  The  Son  and  the 
Holy  Spirit  looked  towards  the  Father,  who  alone  had 
covering  on  his  feet.  This  strange  image  of  the  Trinity 
was  in  existence  still  about  fifty  years  ago. 

The  name,  however,  which  Abelard  gave  to  his  home  in 
the  desert  when  it  thus  became  a  monastery  in  the  desert, 
another  Thebaid,  was  the  Paraclete  or  Comforter.  It  was 
a  sign  of  true  consolation  that  the  oppression  of  the  great 
and  the  frown  of  the  holy  could  not  prevent  the  spread  of 
the  truth,  that  reason  w-as  constant  in  her  attractions,  and 
wisdom  was  justified  in  her  children.  The  monastery  of 
Abelard  was  another  thing  from  that  of  Clairvaux.  There 
discipline  was  all  important.  Here  truth  was  the  principal 
end.  There  men  went  to  learn  obedience  and  practise 
self-denial.  Here  men  went  to  learn  philosophy  in  the  prac- 
tice of  self-denial.  There  the  study  was  a  mere  relief  to  the 
severe  exercises  of  penance  and  the  cell.  Here  prayer 
and  fasting  were  an  occasional  change  from  the  pressure 
and  zeal  of  the  school.  Bernard  taught  his  disciples  how 
to  conform.  Abelard  taught  his  how  to  inquire.  The 
one  guided  them  backwards  through  practice  into  faith, 
the  other  forwards  through  faith  into  practice. 

And  now,  first,  when  fate  had  brought  these  two  great 
men  each  to  the  head  of  his  wilderness  convent,  did  they 
come  together  in  the  trial  of  their  power.  The  young 
monk  of  Clairvaux  had  now  become  the  model  saint  of 
the  world,  had  reconciled  the  disputes  of  kings  and  popes, 
and  had  achieved  a  wider  renown  than  that  even  of  the 
famous  teacher.  A  struggle  now  impended  between  au- 
thority and  reason,  between  the  champion  of  things  estab- 
lished and  the  prophet  of  things  to  come.  Already  the 
watch-dog  of  the  Church  had  scented  the  heresy  of  those 
Parisian  teachins^s,  where  the  honor  of  God  was  alwavs  in 
danger.  He  had  approved  the  measures  of  silencing  this 
daring  innovation,  and  Abelard  by  instinct  counted  him 
among  his  enemies.  He  was  not  slow  to  declare  his 
hatred  and  contempt  of  one  who  was  afraid  of  free  thought. 


ABELARD.  199 


But  when  it  was  rumored  in  the  seckision  of  Paraclete 
that  the  mighty  man  who  had  compassed  Europe  with  his 
power,  and  whose  persuasive  speech  could  win  souls  away 
from  the  most  ingenious  argument,  had  decreed  to  crush 
the  heretic,  when  the  clouds  that  had  been  long  gathering, 
of  murmurs,  and  complaint,  and  accusation,  were  centered 
into  the  thunderbolt  which  Bernard  held,  Abelard  began 
to  fear.  He  saw  that  one  or  the  other  must  fall,  and  he 
trembled  lest  Hector  should  become  the  victim  of  Achilles. 
His  excitement  became  at  one  time  so  great  that  he  con- 
ceived the  design  of  escaping  into  the  East,  and  going  to 
live  as  a  Christian  among  the  enemies  of  Christ.  He 
hoped  here  at  least  to  find  oblivion  if  he  could  not  find 
charity.  He  despaired  now  of  the  truth  when  the  great 
and  the  holy  were  in  league  to  subdue  the  truth.  It  had 
been  better  for  him  to  carry  there  his  misery  than  to  take 
the  part  which  he  took. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  of  fear  and  perplexity  that  Abe- 
lard was  invited  by  the  monks  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys  to 
become  their  abbot.  The  call  was  accepted  more  because 
it  2:ave  an  asvlum  and  a  haven  than  for  the  honor  that  it 
implied.  This  lovely  convent  was  situated  on  the  Atlantic 
coast  in  a  corner  of  the  ancient  province  of  Brittany. 
The  melancholy  plash  of  the  waves,  and  the  vexed  surface 
of  a  boundless   sea  made   it  a  fit  place  for  retirement  and 


broodins:  thouijht.  There  the  recluse  mio'ht  converse  with 
God  and  learn  to  hate  the  world.  But  the  monks  there 
\vere  a  wild,  gross,  and  unlettered  race.  They  spoke  in  a 
barbarous  tongue,  their  habits  were  brutal,  their  manners 
were  fierce  and  uncouth.  They  were  ground  down  by  the 
exactions  of  a  feudal  lord,  and  consoled  themselves  for 
the  payment  of  one-half  their  revenue  in  tributes  by  spend- 
ing the  other  half  in  debauchery.  Abelard  soon  found 
that  his  learning  there  could  have  as  little  weight  as  his 
authority.  The  discipline  which  he  would  establish  found 
no  favor.  He  was  surrounded  by  snares,  he  was  wearied 
with  vain  endeavors,  and  his  days  here  were  mainly  passed 
in  reveries  of  profound  sadness,  in  the  mournful  retrospect 
of  his  past  life,  and  in  the  composition  of  elegiac  verses, 
which  are  not  the  least  monuments  of  his  fame.  These 
touching  effusions  became   at  last  his   consolation.     His 


200  ABEL  ABB. 


own  SQng  reconciled  him  to  grief,  and  to  bewail  his  lot 
became  at  last  his  luxury.  He  had  one  melancholy  pleas- 
ure in  making  over  his  whole  property  of  Paraclete,  the 
oratory,  the  woods,  the  neighboring  hamlet  and  the  fruit- 
bearing  orchards  to  Heloise,  who  had  now  become  an 
eminent  Abbess,  alike  distinguished  for  wisdom,  purity, 
and  sanctity.  The  correspondence  which  had  long  ceased 
between  them  now  began  again,  but  it  was  no  longer  about 
affairs  of  love,  but  about  spiritual  realities. 

We  cannot  go  here  into  a  criticism  of  these  remarkable 
letters,  which  constitute  a  monument  in  literary  history. 
They  remain  models  of  chaste,  ardent,  and  dignified  epis- 
tolary style  even  to  our  own  day.  There  is  at  once  a 
warmth  and  a  reserve  about  them  which  shows  the  latent 
attachment  and  the  present  remorse.  They  are  letters 
which  a  spiritual  adviser  might  write  to  his  friend  or  pupil, 
and  yet  they  are  not  wholly  free  from  the  fire  of  passion. 
They  are  the  letters  of  regenerated  love,  of  love  made 
wise  by  bitter  experience.  They  discuss  a  large  variety  of 
topics,  yet  the  interest  centres  always  upon  the  persons  of 
the  wTiters.  If  Heloise  asks  the  advice  of  the  monk  upon 
some  point  of  convent  management,  you  still  can  see  that 
she  cared  more  for  the  words  of  the  man  than  the  ansvver 
which  he  gave  to  her.  question.  If  Abelard  goes  over 
some  story  of  his  former  sufferings  you  see  that  his  chief 
joy  is  in  the  passage  where  Heloise  was  his  pupil  and  his 
spouse.  He  became  soon  the  visitor  of  his  former  home, 
the  director  of  its  religious  exercises,  the  shepherd  of  that 
flock.  No  happier  period  of  his  troubled  career  was  there 
than  this,  when  he  could  see  the  dearest  friend  of  his  soul 
leading  her  virgins  to  the  altar,  and  living  before  them  a 
life  of  exemplary  holiness.  He  could  bear  the  rudeness 
of  his  own  convent  when  he  saw  the  beauty  and  piety  of 
these  holy  sisters.  It  was  his  prayer  that  he  might  be 
buried  there,  and  he  trusted  that  the  virtue  of  this,  his 
pupil,  might  atone  for  the  sins  of  the  master.  The  nuns 
reverenced  him  as  their  Father  in  God,  and  they  would 
listen  with  attention  to  the  ingenious  speech  with  which 
he  beguiled  the  hours  on  the  form  of  the  human  soul, 
and  repeat  with  fervor  the  prayers  which  he  gave  them. 

But  this  renewal   of  friendship  with  his  former  partner 


ABELARD.  201 


gave  rise  to  scandals  which  added  to  the  disHke  of  the 
monks  in  that  convent  bv  the  sea.     The  Hfe  of  the  Abbot 
was  more  than  once  attempted,  and  the  dagger  was  threat- 
ened where   poison   would  not  work.     Abelard   was  com- 
pelled  to   flee   by   night,    and  for  a   time  lived   in   entire 
seclusion   at  the  house   of  a   nobleman   in   Brittany.     He 
obtained  at  last  an  open  release  from  his  monastic  duties, 
and  for  a  time  was  able  to  keep  peace  with  the  world,  and 
enjoy  the  society  of  friends.     This   period  of  his  life  Abe- 
lard passed  in  reviewing   the  works  which  he  had  written, 
in  developing  his  system  of  philosophy  and  theology,  and 
writing  his  own  personal   history.     If  he  could  have  been 
content  with  this,  he   might  have  died   with  honor  and  in 
the   hope   even   of  sainthood.      For  great   men   were  his 
friends,  all   confessed   his  wisdom,  and  no  stain  was  upon 
his  substantial  orthodoxv.     But  the  habit  and  the  o;lorv  of 
his  youth  lingered  with  him  still.     In  the  fifty-seventh  year 
of  his  age  he  took   the  fatal   step   of  opening   again   his 
school  on   Mount   St.  Genevieve,  the   place  of  his  earliest 
triumphs.     His  fame   at   once  revived.     Students  flocked 
in  crowds  to  listen  to  the  gray-haired  sage  that  had  taught 
their  fathers,   and   survived   a  whole  generation  of  those 
who  listened  to  his  youthful  daring  arguments.     With  the 
fame   of  the   teacher  the  odium   of    the   heretic   revived. 
Now  his  compiled  works  could  be   brought   in   evidence 
against  him.     The   enemies  which  his  strictness,  his  zeal, 
and   his   commanding  temper,   had   made   on   every   side 
would  justify  the  charge.     Men  could  recall  that  sentence 
of  twenty  years   before,  which   he  might  believe  forgotten. 
And  above  all,  now  there  was  a  towering  champion  of  the 
ancient  faith,  who  had  devoted  his  head  and  his  heart  to 
the  extermination   of  all   novelty  as  to  the  preservation  of 
all  holiness. 

Bernard  and  Abelard  had  met  some  five  vears  before  on 
the  occasion  of  the  Pope's  proselyting  progress  through 
France.  Their  natures  were  too  dissimilar  for  any  inti- 
macy to  arise,  and  the  reception  of  the  Pope  on  the  part 
of  Abelard  was  not  cordial  enough  to  quiet  the  suspicions 
of  the  watchful  ally  of  the  Head  of  the  Church.  He  saw 
that  there  was  danger  in  this  man.  Some  changes  which 
he  noticed  in  a  subsequent  visit  to  Heloise  at  her  convent 


202  ABELARD. 


in  the  words  of  the  Lord's  prayer  which  Abelard  had  en- 
joined, increased  his  doubt.  This  came  soon  to  the  ears 
of  Abelard,  and  a  quarrel,  fomented  by  sarcasm  on  one 
side  and  zeal  on  the  other,  arose.  We  need  not  detail  its 
progress.  The  attempts  at  conciliation  on  the  part  of 
Bernard  were  futile  by  reason  of  his  extravagant  demands. 
Like  similar  attempts  in  our  own  day,  all  the  concessions 
were  required  upon  one  side.  The  points  which  the  re- 
former was  ready  to  yield  were  precisely  those  which  the 
conservative  did  not  care  to  gain.  The  warfare  soon  grew 
warm  and  obstinate.  Bernard  used  his  eloquence  against 
the  perfidious  dogmatiser  as  he  called  him,  and  invoked 
upon  him  the  curse  of  God  and  the  execration  of  all 
Christians.  Abelard,  on  his  side,  treated  with  contenipt 
these  charges  and  raised  the  cry  of  freedom.  The  parti- 
sans of  both  entered  into  the  strife.  The  piety  was  on 
the  side  of  one,  the  genius  on  the  side  of  the  other.  Ber- 
nard could  see  that  a  majority  of  voices  were  ready  to 
join  with  him  in  condemning  one  who  had  dared  to  im- 
prove upon  the  Fathers.  Abelard  could  feel  strong  in  the 
thought  that  his  minority  was  made  up  of  brilliant  minds 
and  stout  hearts,  and  was  inspired  by  the  love  of  freedom. 
But  it  was  an  unequal  contest  in  that  day  of  darkness.  It 
is  hard  even  in  this  age  of  light. 

At  last,  weary  of  being  defamed,  and  denounced,  Abe- 
lard demanded  a  public  trial  of  his  views,  at  which  his 
great  adversary  should  be  present,  and  refute  him,  if  he 
could.  On  the  eighth  day  of  Pentecost,  in  the  year  1140, 
the  king  had  promised  to  visit  the  sacred  relics  exposed  that 
day  to  the  reverence  of  the  nobles  and  people.  It  was  a 
great  and  long  expected  occasion.  And  this  time  Abelard 
chose  for  his  triumph  —  or  his  fall.  Bernard  was  at  first 
unwilling  to  go  But  his  partisans  showed  him  that 
absence  would  be  construed  into  fear  and  would  be  fatal. 
He  went  up  with  a  sad  heart,  repeating  to  himself  this 
word  of  the  Gospel,  "  Take  no  thought  of  what  ye  shall 
say,  for  it  shall  be  given  you  at  the  appointed  hour ; "  and 
the  Psalmist's  words,  "God  is  my  stay,  I  will  not  fear  what 
man  can  do." 

It  would  require  a  whole  lecture  to  describe  this  remark- 
able council,  the   vast   array  of  knights   and   bishops,  of 


ABELARD,  203 


deans  and  abbots,  of  holy  men  and  profane  men,  that  came 
up  to  this  clerical  tournament,  the  appearance  of  the  com- 
batants, one  sad  and  downcast  in  look,  giving  benedictions 
to  the  crowds  which  knelt  as  they  passed  him,  the  other 
bold,  upright  and  confident,  frightening  by  his  majestic 
glance,  those  who  were  curious  enough  to  look  upon  his 
face ;  the  splendid  ceremonies  of  the  first  day,  when  all 
the  pomp  and  magnificence  of  the  nation  seemed  gathered 
around  the  altar  of  the  Cathedral  of  Sens,  when  music  and 
art,  and  the  light  of  torches  and  the  glitter  of  golden 
robes  combined  to  seduce  the  people  from  the  truth  to  the 
ritual,  how  ingeniously  Bernard  contrived  beforehand  all 
things  to  prejudice  the  judges  against  his  rival,  how  he 
arranged  the  Court  and  packed  it  with  tools  of  the  Church, 
we  must  pass  all  this,  and  tell  only  in  a  few  words  the 
story  of  the  trial  and  its  issue. 

On  the  second  day  the  court  was  opened.  The  king 
sat  on  his  throne  and  the  fathers  of  the  Church  around 
him.  In  front  was  Bernard,  holding  in  his  hand  the  here- 
tical books.  When  Abelard  entered  and  passed  through 
the  breathless  and  imposing  throng,  his  rival  ordered  the 
seventeen  charges  of  heresy  to  be  read  in  a  loud  voice. 
Abelard  saw  then  that  he  had  come  not  to  be  argued  with ; 
but  to  be  sentenced.  He  declared  angrily,  that  he  would 
not  hear  a  word,  that  they  had  no  right  to  judge  him,  that 
he  appealed  to  the  Pope,  and  left  the  hall  at  once.  The 
judges  at  first  were  filled  with  consternation.  They  dared 
not  condemn  him  after  such  an  appeal.  But  Bernard  saw 
that  it  would  never  do  to  let  the  matter  rest  so.  The  per- 
suasion that  he  meant  for  Abelard  he  used  now  upon  the 
judofes.  And,  after  much  debate,  the  monk  Peter  Abe- 
lard was  convicted  of  heresy  on  fourteen  counts.  The 
principal  of  these  were  that  he  denied  the  doctrine  of  a 
Trinity  of  persons,  that  he  asserted  that  the  man  Christ 
was  not  the  second  person  in  the  Trinity,  that  he  denied 
the  doctrine  of  special  grace  to  the  converted,  that  he 
asserted  that  Christ  saves  men  by  his  life  and  his  exam- 
ple and  not  by  his  vicarious  death,  that  he  made  God  the 
author  of  evil,  that  he  taught  of  sin  that  it  is  in  the  will, 
rather  than  the  act.  These  charges  were  made  out  by  in- 
sulated extracts  from  the  works  of  Abelard,  by  garbling  his 
words,  and  putting  forced  meanings  upon  them. 


204  A  n  EL  Aim. 


But  the  sentence  of  the  council  did  not  yet  decide  the 
matter.  Defenders  sprang  up  all  around,  who  showed  the 
falsity  of  the  charges,  and  affirmed  the  substantial  ortho- 
doxy of  the  convicted  heretic.  Heloise,  whose  earnest  piety 
was  undoubted,  exhibited  a  confession  of  faith  which  Abe- 
lard  had  prepared  for  her.  The  appeal  to  the  Pope  remained. 
But  little  trust  could  be  placed  in  that,  for  Bernard,  whose 
influence  at  Rome  was  unbounded,  took  care  to  surround 
Innocent  with  influences  hostile  to  the  condemned.  The 
hesitation  of  the  Pope  was  chided  as  a  crime,  and  rebuked 
as  a  scandal.  The  consequences  were  dwelt  upon  of 
allowing  the  voice  of  Rome  to  set  aside  the  sentence  of  so 
grave  a  council ;  it  would  endanger  the  unity  of  the 
Church.  The  example  of  Arnold  of  Brescia  was  cited  as 
an  instance  of  the  dangerous  tendency  of  this  heresy.  And 
the  confused  Head  of  Christiandom  was  at  last  persuaded 
to  issue  his  fatal  bull,  which  ran  thus  :  "  By  these  presents, 
we  order  the  bishops  of  Sens  and  Rheins  to  shut  up  separ- 
ately in  the  convents  most  suitably  Peter  Abelard  and 
Arnold  of  Brescia,  inventors  of  blind  dogmas,  and  foes  of 
the  Catholic  faith,  and  to  burn  their  heretical  books  wher- 
ever they  may  be  found.  Given  at  Lateran  on  the 
eighteenth  day  of  August."  This  order  was  secret.  A 
public  letter  was  written,  declaring  him  guilty  of  heresy, 
and  forbidding  him  wholly  to  teach  in  public. 

Before  this  decision  was  known,  Abelard  had  began  his 
journey  to  Rome.  On  his  way  was  the  renowned  monas- 
tery of  Clugny,  which  had  furnished  so  many  great  men  of 
the  Church  in  former  ages.  The  abbot  here  now  was  a 
man  of  large  soul,  and  no  friend  to  the  ascetic  Bernard. 
With  him  Abelard  stopped  to  rest,  and  take  counsel.  Here 
he  first  learned  the  decision  of  Rome  from  a  messen^rer 
sent  by  Bernard  to  the  abbot.  The  skill  of  this  messenger 
was  employed  in  so  reconciling  Abelard  to  his  life  there 
that  the  secret  sentence  should  not  need  to  be  proclaimed. 
A  new  declaration  of  faith  was  drawn  out  from  him  which 
was  pronounced  sufficient.  Abelard  saw  that  it  was  use- 
less longer  to  struggle  with  destiny. 

He  enrolled  himself  as  a  monk  of  Clugny,  waiving  his 
rank,  and  trying  to  hide  himself  only  among  the  lowest. 
He  put  on  the  coarsest  garments,  neglected  all  care  of  his 


ABELARD.  205 


body,  and  kept  out  of  sight  as  much  as  he  could.  His 
exemplary  piety  became  conspicuous.  In  spite  of  his 
reluctance  the  brethren  would  have  him  preach  and  lead 
them  in  the  Holy  Communion.  But  most  of  his  time  he 
passed  in  silence,  reading  and  prayer.  His  studies  were 
still  threefold,  in  theology,  philosophy  and  letters.  He  be- 
came only  a  pure  intellect.  His  passions  were  all  smoth- 
ered or  crushed  out  of  him.  All  that  he  seemed  to  care 
for  was  to  do  his  monastic  duties,  and  yet,  buried  under 
this  cold  exterior,  the  soul  of  the  prophet  was  burning  still. 
The  finishing  touch  which  he  gave  here  to  his  great  work 
of  philosophy  shows  the  unconquerable  spirit.  He  pre- 
dicts in  this  his  future  fame,  that  time  will  prove  his  opin- 
ions just,  will  vindicate  his  science,  and  will  show  that  he 
has  been  the  victim  of  envy  and  a  martyr  to  the  truth. 

His  last  days  were  passed  in  a  beautiful  spot  on  the 
border  of  the  Saone.  The  disease  which  Vv-asted  his  body 
was  lightened  by  the  cares  of  friendship  and  every  mo- 
ment was  spent  in  reading  or  dictating,  or  prayer.  It  was 
an  edifying  close  to  a  troubled  life.  Weary  and  worn,  the 
sufferer  became,  what  he  had  never  been  in  any  fortune 
before,  humble  and  submissive.  He  was  content  to  leave 
his  monument  now  in  the  mark  which  he  had  made  upon 
his  age.  On  the  twenty-first  of  April,  1142,  he  tranquilly 
expired,  being  sixty-three  years  old. 

After  a  brief  sojourn  at  Clugny,  his  body  was  borne, 
according  to  his  last  request,  to  the  convent  of  the  Com- 
forter, where  his  best  beloved  might  watch  it.  There  for 
twenty  years  longer  Heloise  guarded  it  as  a  precious 
treasure,  till  her  own  remains  were  laid  beside  it.  The 
ages  have  still  kept  sacred  this  tomb.  The  fury  of  the 
last  French  Revolution,  which  destroyed  the  landmarks  of 
the  convent,  and  the  chair  in  which  Bernard  sat  when  Abe- 
lard  was  judged,  spared  the  bones  of  these  lovers,  and 
the  world  now  know  where  they  rest.  The  hands  of 
beauty  hang  garlands  on  the  stone,  and  the  tears  of  piety 
drop  upon  the  mound,  where  the  memory  of  this  pair  is 
kept.  Abelard  has  found  an  immortal  fame  where  he  did 
not  expect  it. 

This  is  but  a  meagre  sketch  of  the  life  of  the  great 
teacher  of  the  twelfth  centurv.     And  vet  it  has  left  little 


2o6  ABEL  A  It  I). 


space  for  any  analysis  of  his  character  or  criticisms  of  his 
opinions  and  his  influence.  He  was  a  man  to  win  admira- 
tion and  kindle  enthusiasm  rather  than  a  friend  to  be 
loved.  The  place  of  leader  of  right  belonged  to  him. 
Ambitous,  proud  and  haughty,  he  had  still  the  power  and 
the  consciousness  that  could  make  his  arrogance  tolerable. 
Men  saw  in  him  a  lover  of  truth,  and  honored  his  aspira- 
tion. They  were  subdued  by  the  speech  and  the  life  of 
Bernard,  but  they  were  quickened  by  the  words  of  Abe- 
lard.  But  the  investigation  did  not  bring  to  him,  as  to 
Newton,  personal  humility.  He  was  wont  to  look  down 
rather  than  upward,  to  the  men  beneath  more  than  to  the 
God  above  him.  Reverence  was  neither  a  natural  nor  an 
acquired  trait  with  him.  His  monastic  life  was  a  penance 
more  than  a  pleasure,  a  retreat  from  misery  more  than  a 
resort  of  faith.  He  was  the  priest  of  intellect  more  than  of 
devotion,  earnest  to  show  more  how  God  might  be  known 
than  how  he  might  be  worshipped.  His  mission  in  the 
twelfth  century  was  to  awaken  its  manliness,  to  sound  the 
note  of  freedom  and  to  bid  the  kneeling  penitents  that 
crowded  at  the  altars  to  walk  erect  under  the  heaven  of 
God. 

He  opened  to  the  human  mind  a  broad  domain  that 
superstition  had  shut  off  from  it,  and  taught  that  the  soul 
might  reason  about  the  unseen  world  as  well  as  the  things 
which  were  common  to  the  outward  eye.  He  was  a  man 
of  true  moral  courage,  not  trammeled  by  precedents,  not 
afraid  to  search  and  try.  Bernard  was  brave  before  men, 
but  was  afraid  of  dogmas.  He  dared  not  come  boldly 
to  the  throne  of  God.  Abelard  was  often  infirm  in  his 
dealing  with  men,  and  ready  to  flee  from  oppression,  but 
he  would  dare  all  difficulties  of  doctrine,  and  knock  at  the 
very  door  of  heaven.  He  had  no  idols.  He  worshipped 
no  symbols.  He  asked  the  meaning  and  the  right  of  all 
things  prescribed.  He  was  a  dictator  of  truth,  not  an  in- 
terpreter of  doctrine.  He  is  immortal  in  history  as  the 
pioneer  of  that  Rationalism  which  produced  Galileo  in 
science,  Luther  in  faith,  and  Milton  in  song.  It  was 
reserved  for  nobler  men  to  carry  out  the  principles  which 
he  declared.  In  the  ancient  Church  he  reminds  us  of 
Jerome  of  Bethlehem,  in  the  modern  of  Erasmus  of  Rot- 


A  BELAUD.  207 


terdam.  He  had  the  same  vanity,  the  same  pedantry,  the 
same  sense  of  power,  the  same  dread  of  persecution  with 
these  remarkable  men. 

Bernard  witli  all  his  honors  died  a  disappointed  man. 
Abelard  in  all  his  reverses  saw  at  last  his  triumph  sure. 
The  reform  which  he  brought  about  could  not  be  hindered 
by  the  anathemas  of  any  priesthood.  He  knew  that  the 
truth  would  prevail.  The  Church  was  against  him,  but 
God  was  on  his  side.  He  trusted  in  the  quickening  force 
of  time  to  show  the  fruit  of  the  seed  which  he  scattered. 
The  labors  of  this  generation  are  proving  that  the  scholar 
of  the  twelfth  century  was  wiser  than  the  monk.  The  one 
belongs  to  the  Church,  but  the  other  belongs  to  the  world, 
which  is  wider  than  the  Church.  The  memory  of  the  one 
is  enshrined  at  the  altar.  The  influence  of  the  other  is 
felt  in  the  workshop  and  the  college.  The  glory  of  the 
one  is  a  waning  tradition,  the  glory  of  the  other  is  an  ex- 
panding energy.  The  first  leads  men  backward  to  the 
fear,  the  second  forward  to  the  knowledge  of  God. 


2o8  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FBANCIS. 


VIII. 

ST.  DOMINIC    AND    ST.   FRANCIS. 

There  are  two  principal  influences  by  which,  in  the 
Providence  of  God,  reform  and  conversion  and  holiness 
are  brought  about,  —  preaching  and  example.  We  are 
moved  on  one  side  by  the  eloquent  word,  on  the  other  by 
the  consistent  life  of  those  who  would  persuade  us  to  any 
truth.  The  silent  lesson  of  the  house  and  the  street  goes 
parallel  with  the  spoken  appeal  of  the  pulpit.  For  a  com- 
plete efficiency,  these  must  be  united  in  the  same  person, 
he  who  calls  to  righteousness  and  faith  must  show  in  his 
own  life  the  way.  The  best  influence  of  the  preacher  is 
vitiated  or  nullified  if  a  virtuous  life  be  wanting,  and 
exemplary  piety  too  often  goes  unseen  and  unheeded,  be- 
cause it  has  no  gift  of  the  tongue.  The  true  Apostles  of 
the  world,  such  men  as  Paul  and  Ambrose  and  Bernard, 
and  Wesley,  have  all  prevailed  by  this  twofold  power. 
They  have  shown  the  instances  of  what  they  called  men  to 
believe  and  be. 

In  the  Saviour  of  the  world,  these  gifts  were  combined 
in  the  highest  proportion.  His  perfect  holiness  harmon- 
ized with,  fitted  into  his  inspired  word,  as  a  soul  into  the 
body,  so  that  both  were  equally  wondrous  and  equally 
captivating.  But  this  combination  of  gifts  is  compara- 
tively rare.  The  great  preachers  of  the  world  have  not 
been  oftenest  its  saints,  thou^rh  manv  such  have  been  can- 
onized  in  spite  of  their  evil  lives.  And  probably  the 
largest  number  of  those  who  have  walked  closely  with 
God  below,  have  been  soon  forgotten  upon  the  earth  and 
find  their  reward  mainly  in  heaven.  It  seems  ordained 
that  to  most  men  only  one  of  these  influences  shall  be 
useful,  that  some  shall  persuade  with  the  tongue,  and 
others  with  the  life. 

The  preponderating  power  of  these   two  forms  of  influ- 

f 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FRANCIS.  209 


ence  depends  somewhat  upon  the  object  to  which  they  are 
directed.  Preaching  has  the  most  influence  upon  the  rea- 
son of  men,  example  upon  their  practice.  The  one  helps 
men  to  know  the  /ml/i,  the  other  guides  them  into  righte- 
ousness. The  first  takes  charge  of  doctrine,  the  second  of 
life.  For  correct  opinions,  for  conviction  and  persuasion 
to  faith  we  follow  the  orator  of  the  Gospel,  him  who  can 
expound  it  wisely  and  illustrate  it  skilfully.  For  upright 
conduct,  for  instruction  in  the  divine  life,  we  observe  the 
meek  servant  of  God,  whose  holiness  points  us  the  way  to 
heaven.  This  fact  is  illustrated  in  numerous  and  familiar 
instances.  If  you  inquire  who  are  the  great  orators  and 
expounders  that  guide  the  public  opinion,  wdiose  word  is 
so  far  law  that  it  can  sway  thousands  of  men  together  and 
reverse  suddenly  the  solemn  and  repeated  resolves  of 
parties  and  states,  you  will  not  find  that  such  men  persuade 
to  holiness  by  their  lives ;  men  do  not  go  to  them  to  learn 
practical  virtue ;  the  wise,  who  adopt  their  views,  would 
smile  if  you  mentioned  such  old-fashioned  graces  as  tem- 
perance, honesty,  chastity,  or  even  consistency  in  connec- 
tion with  them. 

It  has  come  to  that  pass  that  we  almost  expect  that  a 
master  of  speech  shall  be  a  demagogue  or  an  intriguer, 
anxious  to  be  President,  Senator,  Bishop,  or  something  of 
the  sort.  Goodness,  too,  is  often  associated  with  feeble- 
ness, and  you  will  hear  it  dolefully  insisted  that  our  good 
men  are  not  great.  It  is  no  more  true  to-day,  however, 
than  it  was  in  former  days.  The  intellect  of  man  will  pay 
its  homage  now  as  ever  to  commanding  eloquence,  but  the 
life  of  the  world  will  now  as  ever  be  built  upon  the  founda- 
tion of  life.  Error  will  be  put  down  by  preaching  still, 
but  sin  be  best  rebuked  by  practical  holiness. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  whether  at  the  beginning  of  the  thir- 
teenth century  there  were  a  wider  demand  and  a  wider 
sphere  for  preaching  or  for  example  as  a  means  of  Chris- 
tian persuasion.  The  Church  found  itself  in  a  perplexity 
between  heresy  and  corruption,  between  doctrines  that 
falsified  the  Catholic  faith,  and  practice  that  degraded  the 
Christian  life.  Abelard  had  left  his  memory  and  the  fruits 
of  his  word  in  a  wide  and  growing  hostility  to  the  creed  of 
Rome,  and  the  sanctity  and  strictness  of  Bernard's  rule 
14  • 


2IO  ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FEANCIS. 

had  its  reaction  now  in  the  dissolute  Hfe  of  priests  and 
monks  and  the  clerical  state  everywhere.  The  charges 
which  heretics  brought  against  the  established  Church 
were  justified  by  the  scandalous  habits  of  the  authorized 
defenders  of  the  Church.  That  which  should  have  fur- 
nished the  bulwark  against  false  doctrine,  furnished  the 
reason  and  the  excuse  for  schism.  A  reformer  who  looked 
about  for  the  most  pressing  work  of  change  might  doubt 
whether  the  men  out  of  the  Church  needed  most  to  be 
brought  into  it,  or  the  men  in  the  Church,  by  name  and 
office,  needed  most  to  be  converted  to  its  spirit.  The  con- 
vents demanded  their  missionary  not  less  than  the  unlaw- 
ful crowds  that  stormed  against  the  Pope  and  the  priesthood 
in  the  fields  or  in  rebellious  cities. 

There  was  a  work  of  grace  to  be  done  at  Clugny  and 
Citeaux  as  well  as  in  heretical  Lyons.  It  was  the  singular 
fortune  of  the  Church  that  both  these  needs  were  simul- 
taneously perceived  and  met  by  the  heart  and  the  zeal  of 
two  remarkable  Apostolic  men.  One  saw  with  fear  the 
departure  of  the  age  from  the  sound  creed  of  the  Fathers, 
and  gave  himself  to  the  task  of  exterminating  heresy,  the 
other  saw  with  pain  the  loss  of  ancient  godliness  and  the 
forgetfulness  of  Christian  vows,  and  gave  himself  to  the 
work  of  restoring  the  Apostolic  poverty  and  humility. 

The  influence  of  St.  Dominic  and  St.  Francis  in  the 
■world  has  been  great  enough,  and  the  province  of  each 
distinct  enough,  to  make  a  separate  account  of  them  and 
their  followers  interesting.  But  the  detail  of  the  lives  of 
both  is  so  monotonously  filled  with  marvellous  legends  and 
puerile  miracles,  that  they  can  be  treated  in  one  lecture 
without  injustice  and  with  some  advantage.  Both  of  them 
seem  to  have  substantially  represented  their  idea ;  inde- 
pendently of  that,  they  have  no  especial  attraction  for  us. 
The  first,  the  founder  of  the  Preaching  Friars,  embodies 
to  us  the  conception  and  the  work  of  that  fraternity.  The 
second,  the  founder  of  the  Minorites,  or  pj-actising  Friars, 
is  the  finest  illustration  which  history  has  furnished  of 
what  that  order  was  intended  to  be. 

St.  Dominic  is  the  monk  of  the  pulpit,  who  warns  the 
skeptical  and  pleads  with  the  wavering,  and  is  great  there. 
St.  Francis  is  the  monk  of  the  street,  who  rebukes  world- 


ST.    DOMINIC  AND   ST.    FRANCIS.  211 

liness  and  shames  luxury,  when  he  kneels  by  the  leper's 
side  and  gives  his  scanty  garment  to  the  beggar  along  the 
way.  Both  are  mendicants,  but  to  the  one  riches  are  an 
encumbrance,  to  the  other  a  curse.  The  preaching  friar 
rejects  worldly  possessions  that  he  may  not  be  hampered 
in  his  zeal  for  God's  truth ;  the  practising  friar  will  be 
poor  because  the  Apostles  were  so,  because  only  by  pov- 
erty can  one  hope  to  inherit  God's  kingdom.  As  theory 
goes  before  fact,  as  preaching  must  go  before  practice,  and 
as  the  life  of  St.  Dominic  was  a  little  earlier  in  point  of 
time,  we  will  call  that  first  under  a  rapid  survey.  We  can- 
not, of  course,  give  anything  like  a  complete  sketch  of  the 
life  of  the  Spanish  monk.  If  you  are  curious  in  that  way, 
you  may  find  it  written  as  with  a  pen  of  fire  by  the  bril- 
liant Lacordaire,  the  most  eminent  of  modern  Catholic 
preachers  in  France. 

St.  Dominic  was  born  at  Calavoga,  in  the  province  of  old 
Castile,  in  the  year  1170.  His  parents  were  both  of  noble 
extraction.  His  father,  Felix  Gusman,  bore  a  name,  which 
valor  against  the  Moors,  not  less  than  a  long  line  of 
haughty  ancestors,  had  rendered  honorable  among  the 
grandees  of  Spain.  His  mother  added  to  her  family 
renown  the  better  fame  of  personal  sanctity.  Before  her 
third  son  was  born,  a  dream  came  to  her  as  to  the  mother 
of  Bernard,  which  the  issue  proved  to  be  prophetic.  It 
was  of  a  whelp,  who  carried  in  his  mouth  a  burning  torch, 
with  which  it  set  the  whole  world  on  fire.  Precocious  aus- 
terities are  recorded  of  the  infant.  They  tell  how  he 
would  pray  before  he  could  read  or  even  speak,  and  how 
he  would  get  out  of  his  cradle  and  lie  on  the  hard  floor 
that  he  might  early  know  the  privation  of  the  monastic 
state,  how  he  showed  no  taste  for  any  childish  amusements, 
but  asked  only  to  be  instructed  in  the  duties  of  a  child  of 
God. 

At  the  university,  whither  he  went  at  the  age  of  four- 
teen, an  extraordinary  charity  and  an  extensive  culture 
made  him  conspicuous  among  his  fellows.  While  he 
learned  the  lore  of  the  Fathers  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
Scriptures,  he  was  unbounded  in  his  gifts  to  the  poor  and 
his  labors  of  self-denial.  In  his  twenty-first  year,  he  had 
sold  all  his  patrimony,  all   his  books,  all  even  of  his  own 


212  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FRANCIS. 

writings,  to  succor  the  needy.  In  this  condition,  one  day 
he  was  appealed  to  by  a  poor  woman  for  alms  to  redeem 
her  brother  who  had  been  enslaved  by  the  Moors.  '"  I 
have  no  gold  or  silver,"  said  Dominic,  "but  I  can  work. 
You  may  take  me  and  sell  me  to  the  Moor  in  exchange 
for  your  brother.  I  will  be  his  slave."  Had  the  offer 
been  accepted,  the  Catholic  Church  would  have  lost  one 
of  its  pillars.  For  the  reverence  with  which  Dominic  was 
already  regarded  by  scholars  and  people  showed  that  a 
great  man  had  arisen. 

St.  Dominic  was  about  twentv-five  vears  old  when  he 
passed  through  the  process  of  conversion,  when  he  was 
made  to  see  his  own  sinfulness  and  need  of  a  Saviour,  and 
had  all  those  mystical  experiences  that  enter  into  the  work 
of  spiritual  redemption.  He  became  a  canon  in  his 
native  diocese  and  set  himself  to  preach  to  the  people. 
The  description  of  his  life  for  the  next  eight  years  reminds 
us  strongly  of  the  style  and  method  of  revival  preachers 
in  our  own  day.  He  was  greatly  concerned  for  the  salva- 
tion of  souls,  and  shocked  by  the  growth  of  heresy.  His 
daily  persuasion  and  his  nightly  prayer  were  that  the  un- 
believino;  misfht  be  reconciled  to  God.  But  in  his  own 
neighborhood  infidelity  had  comparatively  a  small  hold. 
He  saw  more  of  it  in  the  journey  which  he  took  through 
the  south  of  France  with  his  bishop  in  the  year  1205. 
There  the  whole  land  was  overrun  W'ith  heresv  from  the 
feudal  lord  to  the  humblest  peasant.  The  first  and  the 
last  spectacle  to  Dominic  was  of  a  land  delivered  over  to 
the  enemy  of  souls.  All  the  zeal  in  his  heart  was  fired. 
His  bishop  was  of  the  same  mind,  and  together  they  peti- 
tioned the  Pope  that  they  might  stay  in  France  and  con- 
vert these  heretics. 

The  term  of  two  years  was  allowed  them,  and  they 
proceeded  to  occupy  it  in  a  tour  of  preaching.  What 
could  not  be  done  by  fire  and  sword  Dominic  undertook  to 
do  with  his  feeble  voice.  And  wonderful  instances  are  re- 
lated of  his  power  with  this,  which  were  believed  by  the 
pious  of  his  time  to  be  miracles  wrought  by  God's  spirit. 
Men  compared  his  power  to  strike  the  hard-hearted  and 
open  their  souls  to  the  truth  to  the  influence  of  Orpheus, 
drawing  after  him  the  rocks  and  the  trees.     But  it  was  a 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.    FRANCIS.  213 


desperate    hope    by   the    preaching   of    a    single    man  to 
destroy  the  hydra  of  heresy. 

Dominic  had  been  already  a  preacher  to  the  heretics 
three  years  when   the  war  with  the  Albigenses  broke  out. 
This  bloody  crusade  which  was  the  terrible  revenge  which 
the  Roman  Church  took  for  the  murder  of  its  legate,  Peter 
de  Castelman,  has  been  falsely  charged   to  the  advice  and 
influence  of  Dominic.     But  there  is  no  proof  that  he  en 
coura^ed  anv  of  its   outrageous  cruelties.      He    did    not 
seek  to  exterminate,  but  to  convert  heretics,  and   though 
he  went  with  the  army  of  Count   Simon  de  Montfort,  who 
has  come  down  to  us  as  the  most  blood-thirsty  of  monsters, 
he  tried  to  moderate   the  violence  of  this   Christian  Nero. 
In  another  lecture  we  shall  speak  of  that  hideous  crusade. 
Dominic's  name  is  properly  connected  with  it  by  the  record 
of  his  exposures,  his  zeal,  and  his   daring.     One   day  he 
was   waylaid   by  assassins,   but  by  good  fortune  escaped. 
When  asked  what  he  would  have  done  if  he  had  met  them, 
"  I  would   have  thanked  God,"  said   he,  "and  would  have 
be2:2:ed  as  a  favor  that  mv  blood  mi2:ht  have  been  let  out 
drop  by  drop,  and  my  limbs  lopped  off  one  by  one,  that  my 
torment  might  have   been    prolonged."     He    offered  too 
again  to  sell   himself  as  a  slave  for  the   benefit  of  a  poor 
heretic  who  complained  that  he  could  not  give  up  his  false 
doctrine  for  fear  of  losing  his   livelihood.     This  period  of 
his  life,  however,  is  so  crowded  with  stories  of  miraculous 
cures,  and  wonders  of  all  kinds,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to 
separate  the  true   from  the  false.     It  is  certain,  however, 
that  before  the  war  was  over,  Dominic  had  gained  a  repu- 
tation   for  sanctity,  for  eloquence,    and   for   devotedness 
unequalled  by  any  teacher  in  the  Church  since  the  great 
Bernard.     He  was  counted   the  champion  of  the  Church, 
and  his  only  arms  were  teaching,  patience,  penance,  fasting, 
watching,  tears  and  prayer. 

The  first  executive  act  of  Dominic  was  the  foundation 
of  the  famous  nunnery  of  St.  Prouille.  This  was  designed 
to  furnish  a  Christian  education  to  such  children  of  heretics 
as  could  be  decoyed  therein  and  so  to  prepare  a  supply  of 
Blessed  Virgins  for  the  support  of  Catholic  order.  In  all 
ages  of  the  Church  nunneries  have  been  the  guage  and 
thermometer  of  the  Catholic   faith.      The   persistence  of 


214  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FRANCIS, 

women  who  take  the  vow  may  be  relied  on  with  far  more  con- 
fidence than  that  of  men.  But  a  much  more  important 
gift  to  the  Church  was  his  invention  of  the  J^osary.  This 
in  its  essence  is  a  form  of  prayer.  But  it  has  its  sign  in  a 
string  of  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  beads,  with  a  cross 
attached  to  them.  These  are  arranged  by  tens,  with  one 
large  bead  at  the  end  of  every  ten.  The  small  beads 
mark  the  number  of  Ave  Marias  that  are  to  be  said,  the 
fifteen  large  beads  the  Lord's  Prayer  to  be  so  many  times 
repeated.  The  number  fifteen  was  chosen  because  the 
Catholics  reckon  fifteen  principal  mysteries  in  the  life  of 
Christ.  The  whole  form  is  so  arranged  as  to  contain  an 
abstract  of  the  life  of  our  Saviour  and  of  his  Mother. 
The  rosary  speedily  became  popular,  and  before  a  century 
was  used  throughout  the  Church.  No  pious  woman  would 
be  without  it.  It  was  worn  on  the  necks  of  friars  with 
beads  of  black  wood,  and  on  the  necks  of  kings  with 
beads  of  gold.  Beneath  many  a  purple  robe  it  was  placed 
next  the  heart,  and  tyrants  who  meditated  crime  could 
worship  God  at  the  same  moment  as  they  told  over  its 
successive  prayers.  It  guides  to-day  the  devotions  of  the 
poor  and  the  unlettered,  and  in  many  households  it  is 
counted  every  day  as  the  excuse  for  falsehood,  as  the 
means  of  penance  and  the  hope  of  salvation. 

But  his  greatest  work  was  begun  when,  in  the  year  12 15, 
he  established  the  order  of  the  Preaching^  Friars.  Here- 
tofore  the  monastic  and  the  clerical  life  had  been  mainl)' 
kept  distinct.  The  convents  had  furnished,  indeed,  emi- 
nent preachers,  but  in  most  instances  when  they  became 
preachers  they  ceased  to  be  monks.  A  few  distinguished 
men  like  Bernard,  were  privileged  to  speak  to  the  people 
without  priestly  orders,  but  in  the  main  those  who  chose 
the  ascetic  life  were  preachers  more  by  example  than  by 
word.  Dominic  conceived  the  plan  of  joining  these  ap- 
parently separate  functions.  He  could  not  see  why  one 
who  had  disciplined  his  soul  by  severe  exercises  of  pen- 
ance, and  confirmed  his  faith  by  earnest  self-denial,  should 
not  be  the  very  fittest  person  to  declare  the  truth.  The 
studies  of  the  convent  seemed  to  him  a  better  preparation 
for  the  ministry  of  the  word  than  much  familiarity  with  the 
world  and  its  corruptions.     He  saw  the  clergy  secularized, 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FRANCIS.  215 

that  it  had  become  merely  an  echo  of  the  convenience  or 
the  whim  of  the  civil  rulers,  that  its  verdict  and  teaching 
were  based  on  the  morality  of  the  time  more  than  the 
standards  of  the  Church  and  the  sacred  Scriptures.  He 
saw,  too,  that  the  holiness,  the  austerity,  the  wisdom  of  the 
monks  were  neglected  and  forgotten,  and  deprived  of  their 
just  influence,  by  being  hidden  always  in  the  cloister.  And 
he  believed  that  in  uniting  these  offices  he  should  make 
both  more  vital,  pure,  and  efficient.  It  was  a  novel  and 
not  an  attractive  scheme.  For  those  who  believed  that  the 
true  service  of  God  is  found  in  solitude  and  perpetual 
prayer,  would  dread  the  commerce  with  worldly  vices  and 
intrigues  which  preaching  demanded,  and  the  regular 
clergy  would  strenuously  oppose  any  such  practical  rebuke 
to  their  order. 

The  number  of  brethren  that  Dominic  was  able  to 
gather  at  first  was  very  small.  There  were  only  sixteen 
who  united  to  form  the  first  convent,  and  they  could  have 
no  legal  existence  until  they  had  secured  the  approbation 
of  the  Cardinals  and  the  Pope.  At  the  fourth  council  of 
the  Lateran,  one  of  the  most  gorgeous  and  imposing  that 
the  Church  had  seen,  a  canon  had  been  passed  that  no 
new  religious  order  should  be  chartered.  The  Pope  at 
that  time.  Innocent  III,  though  very  much  in  favor  of 
multiplying  preachers,  thought  that  there  were  already 
enough  of  monastic  systems.  The  multiplication  of 
Orders  seemed  only  fatall}'-  to  weaken  the  unity  of  the 
Church.  The  claim  of  the  Vatican  to  undivided  lordship 
could  not  be  so  well  sustained  when  there  were  so  many 
hostile  bodies  claiming  to  be  the  possessors  of  pure  Catho- 
lic truth.  But  the  piety  and  the  importunity  of  Dominic 
together  worked  upon  the  heart  of  the  Pope,  and  a  con- 
venient dream,  in  which  he  saw  the  Lateran  Church  falling 
and  Dominic  stepping  in  to  prop  it  up,  induced  him  to 
grant  his  consent,  and  sanction  the  enterprise.  The  next 
Pope  confirmed  it  by  his  hand  and  seal,  and  two  bulls, 
dated  the  twenty-sixth  of  December,  12 16,  the  morning  after 
the  Christmas  festival,  mark  the  formal  birth  of  a  new  order 
of  Christian  Apostles,  second  in  influence  only  to  that 
W'hich  was  gathered  in  an  upper  room  in  Judea.  Since 
that  day  the   successor  of  Peter  has  found  his  most  ready 


2i6  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FRANCIS. 

and  faithful  ally  in  the  successor  of  Dominic.  The  master 
of  the  sacred  palace  is  appointed  to  be  the  watchman,  the 
teacher,  the  critic,  the  friend  of  the  triple-crowned  sover- 
eign. What  the  prime  minister  is  to  England's  Queen, 
what  Richelieu  was  to  Louis,  that  is  the  chief  of  the 
Dominicans  to  the  Vicegerent  of  Christ  upon  the  earth. 

The  rule  which  Dominic  chose  for  the  guidance  of  his 
order  was  that  of  St.  Augustine.  It  was  simple,  but  strict 
and  absolute.  It  enjoined  poverty  but  did  not  encourage 
beggary.  It  provided  for  a  godly  and  sober  lite,  that  so 
the  word  mi2:ht  have  more  effect.  Convents  were  to  be 
founded,  as  many  as  possible,  but  no  monk  was  to  deem 
the  convent  his  home.  All  were  to  be  ready  to  take  staff 
and  go  where  a  field  was  opened  for  the  conversion  of 
souls.  No  private  property  was  allowed,  and  all  common 
property  was  held  in  trust  for  the  poor.  The  dress  was  a 
simple  white  cloak  and  hood,  with  a  girdle  to  hold  it  to- 
gether. Entire  disinterestedness  was  enjoined,  and  very 
frequent  penance.  The  monks  were  to  be  living  illustra- 
tions of  the  truth  which  they  preached.  St.  Dominic  did 
not  enjoin  squalidness  or  misery  of  exterior  or  forbid  even 
the  signs  of  elegance,  if  these  were  made  subsidiary  to  the 
great  end  of  preaching  the  Gospel.  The  graphic  picture 
of  the  first  convent  at  Toulouse,  the  very  centre  of  heresy, 
may  serve  as  a  description  of  the  style  of  Dominican  life. 
"The  cloister  was  a  court-yard,  surrounded  by  a  gallery. 
In  the  middle  of  the  court-yard,  according  to  ancient  tra- 
dition, there  was  a  well,  the  symbol  of  the  living  water, 
which  springs  up  to  life  eternal.  Under  the  flag-stones  of 
the  gallery  tombs  were  excavated.  Along  the  walls  funeral 
inscriptions  were  carved.  In  the  arch  of  the  vault,  the 
acts  of  the  saints  of  the  order  were  painted.  This  place 
was  sacred.  The  monks  paced  silently  through  it,  think- 
ing only  upon  death  and  the  memory  of  the  Father. 
Around  this  solemn  gallery  were  ranged  the  halls  for  food, 
for  study,  and  for  dress,  and  two  doors  opened  into  the 
Church,  one  to  the  nave,  another  to  the  choir.  A  stair- 
case led  to  the  second  story  built  over  the  gallery.  Four 
windows  at  the  corners  let  in  the  needful  light.  Four 
lamps  threw  out  their  rays  during  the  night.  Along  these 
high  and  broad   corridors,  whose  decency  was  their  only 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.    FRANCIS.  217 

ornament,  was  ranged  a  symmetrical  line  of  doors  exactly 
alike.  In  the  space  between  hung  old  pictures,  maps, 
plans  of  cities  and  castles,  the  archives  of  the  convent. 
At  the  sound  of  the  bell,  all  these  doors  softly  opened. 
Old  men,  white-haired  and  tranquil,  men  of  early  maturity, 
youths,  whose  penitence  added  to  the  fresh  bloom  of  their 
years,  all  ages  came  out  together  in  the  same  garment. 
The  cell  of  each  was  large  enous^h  only  to  hold  a  bed  of 
straw  or  hair,  a  table  and  two  chairs.  A  crucifix  and  some 
holv  imasres  were  all  its  ornament.  From  this  livinsr  tomb 
the  monk  passed  out  when  his  work  was  done  to  his  nar- 
row house  below.  The  same  garment  that  he  had  slept 
and  prayed  in  became  his  shroud.  Over  his  dust  the  feet 
of  his  brethren  kept  their  solemn  march;  and  the  songs 
that  he  joined  in  before  were  sung  daily  as  his  requiem. 
'O,  sublime  burial!  O,  lovely  and  sacred  home  !'  says  the 
enthusiastic  Lacordaire.  '  For  man  august  palaces  have 
been  reared.  But  the  dwelling  of  God's  saints  is  almost 
divine.  The  skill  of  man  has  risen  no  higher  than  in 
.raising  the  walls  of  the  peaceful  cloister.'  " 

The  cloister  thus  described  was  relinquished  when  riches 
and  pride  corrupted  the  early  simplicity  of  the  order.  The 
low  cells,  six  feet  long  and  five  broad,  were  changed  then 
for  more  spacious  apartments.  And  this  almost  divine 
dwelling  lasted  only  sixteen  years  as  the  habitation  of  the 
preaching  brothers.  The  convent  which  was  built  in  1232 
in  its  place  is  still  standing  at  Toulouse,  and  since  the  first 
French  revolution  has  been  used  for  shops  and  as  an  inn. 

The  first  convent  was  a  type  in  substance  of  all  that 
Dominic  founded.  His  first  company  of  sixteen,  like  true 
Apostles,  had  each  their  separate  province  of  labor  and 
in  a  little  time  made  full  proof  of  their  ministry.  Before 
the  death  of  the  Saint,  his  rule  and  name  had  become  an 
important  variety  of  monastic  life.  On  the  slopes  of  the 
Roman  hills,  the  company  of  his  monks,  and  convents  of 
his  nuns,  were  gathered.  The  Polish  ambassador  carried 
back  to  his  wild  land  a  trophy  of  Dominic's  power  in  two 
nephews,  who  planted  the  order  in  that  region  as  a  light 
to  shine  in  a  dark  place.  The  King  of  Scotland,  who 
heard  him  in  Paris,  obtained  as  a  favor  that  the  Preaching 
Friars  should  be   sent  to  wake  up   his  rude   Caledonian 


2i8  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FRANCIS, 

race.  In  the  chief  streets  of  Madrid,  of  Paris,  of  Flor- 
ence, and  Avignon,  the  man  of  God  left  flourishing  con- 
vents as  a  testimony  to  his  evangelical  power.  And  the 
city  of  Bologna,  which  had  long  been  renowned  as  the 
chief  school  of  the  civil  law,  became  famous  as  the  metro- 
politan city  of  the  new  religious  order.  Here  the  great, 
and  wise,  and  learned  men  rejoiced  to  join  the  ranks  of 
the  friars.  The  doctor's  cap  was  exchanged  for  the  monk's 
hood,  and  the  interpretation  of  Roman  statutes  gave  way 
to  the  exposition  of  the  word  of  God. 

The  moment  of  highest  triumph  in  Dominic's  life  was 
in  the  year  1220,  on  the  day  of  Pentecost,  when  the  first 
General  Assembly  of  his  order  was  gathered  in  the  con- 
vent Church  at  Bologna.  He  had  just  reached  fifty  years 
of  life,  but  constant  travel,  preaching,  and  austerity  had 
made  him  prematurely  old.  But  he  saw  now  the  fruits  of 
his  toil  in  brethren  who  came  numerously  up  from  the 
North  and  the  South,  from  all  the  Catholic  lands  (but 
Hungary  and  England)  to  tell  of  heretics  converted,  and 
men  who  had  forsaken  all  at  the  call  of  the  Gospel. 
Three  years  now  had  passed  since  his  friends  were  sent 
out  on  their  mission,  but  they  came  back  with  a  record  of 
service  and  success  that  might  rival  the  ancient  story  of 
the  first  disciples.  Then  the  learned  and  the  rulers  treated 
the  new  Gospel  as  folly.  Now  the  best  men  of  the  schools 
gladly  embraced  the  hard  office  of  evangelists.  Dominic 
looked  round  with  pride  upon  the  goodly  throng  of  honora- 
ble men  that  waited  around  him,  and  it  rejoiced  his  heart 
to  hear  how  their  unanimous  suffrage  confessed  their  affec- 
tion and  regard  for  him.  But  he  was  troubled  to  find  that 
already  they  had  departed  somewhat  from  his  original 
plan  of  poverty,  and  were  accepting  donations  from  the 
great.  He  would  not  have  them  beggars,  but  he  would 
not  have  any  worldly  possession  to  abstract  their  thoughts 
or  affections  from  the  spiritual  inheritance,  and  he  per- 
suaded them  to  give  up  some  territories  that  had  been 
willed  to  them  and  refuse  in  future  to  be  aided  in  that  way. 

One  more  general  chapter  of  the  Order  was  held  at 
Bologna  which  the  Saint  attended.  It  was  not  given  him 
to  fulfill  his  longing  wish  of  going  off  to  the  Pagan  East 
and  becoming  a  martyr,  but  his  last  year  of  life  was  spent 


ST.    DOMINIC  AND   ST.    FRANCIS.  219 

in  a  zealous  tour  of  preachins^  through  the  north  of  Italy 
where  heresv  was  exceeclin2:lv  rife.  His  devotion  to  this 
work  was  rivalled  onlv  bv  the  feats  of  the  2:reat  Methodist 
preacher  in  a  more  modern  age.  Every  day,  and  many 
times  in  a  day,  was  he  heard  along  the  way  or  in  the 
churches,  proclaiming  the  riches  of  divine  grace  and 
urging  the  faithless  to  accept  the  terms  of  God's  love. 
The  gushing  flood  of  his  entreaties,  in  which  tears  were 
profusely  mingled,  subdued  the  hearts  which  were  still 
tender,  and  the  deep  undertone  of  his  threatenings  awed 
the  reckless  into  submission.  And  when  they  knew  that 
this  man  who  preached  all  day,  prayed  all  night,  that  this 
divine  power  of  binding  and  loosing  came  to  him  only 
through  the  most  signal  humility,  then  they  were  drawn  to 
a  state  in  which  power  and  freedom  were  so  strangely 
blended,  in  which  one  might  be  busy  and  useful  upon 
earth  and  yet  not  be  encumbered  by  the  cares  of  earth. 

At  the  second  general  chapter  of  his  order,  Dominic  had 
the  joy  of  finding  that  the  remaining  Christian  lands  had  re- 
^ceived  his  apostles  and  to  count  martyrs,  too,  among  those 
whom  he  had  sent  out.  He  was  now  ready  to  resign  and 
depart,  though  his  preaching  fervor  did  not  abate.  For 
some  time  his  sick  chamber  became  as  a  church,  and  the 
last  testament  which  he  left  to  his  brethren  was  a  touching- 
sermon  upon  the  Christian  virtues  and  fidelity  to  the  faith. 
I  will  not  describe  the  death  scene.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
in  beauty  and  in  serenity  it  was  like  those  of  other  emi- 
nent saints  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  He  died  in  Bologna 
on  the  sixth  of  August,  122 1,  at  the  age  of  fifty-one.  His 
remains  rest  in  a  splendid  mausoleum  in  the  Dominican 
cathedral  church  of  that  city-  This  monument,  one  of  the 
(finest  specimens  of  modern  art,  is  now  to  myriads  a  stone 
of  pilgrimage.  For  three  centuries  offerings  have  been 
laid  there,  and  the  prayers  in  the  holy  name  of  Dominic 
sent  up  at  its  side.  And  the  envious  Protestant  now,  who 
wanders  in  that  place,  may  see  at  any  hour  some  kneeling 
form  before  that  tomb,  when  the  lamps  of  the  altar  are 
out,  and  the  sound  of  music  is  still. 

At  the  great  Council  of  the  Lateran,  in  the  year  1215, 
it  was  Dominic's  fortune  to  meet  a  remarkable  man,  whose 
fame  for  piety,  for  endurance,  and  for  miraculous  influence 


220  ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FBANCIS. 

had  already  become  wide  in  Christendom.  Francis  was 
some  twelve  years  younger  than  the  Spanish  monk,  but  his 
hard  discipline  had  reconciled  this  difference,  and  he  met 
the  great  preacher  on  an  equal  footing.  He  was  born  of 
worthy  parents,  in  the  papal  town  of  Assisi.  So  early  did 
he  learn  to  be  charitable  that  it  might  almost  be  said  that 
he  was  a  mendicant  from  the  cradle.  One  of  his  earli- 
est vows  was  never  to  refuse  alms  to  any  poor  man  that 
should  ask  it  for  the  love  of  God.     He  kept  the  vow. 

His  early  experiences  were  severe  and  bitter.  For  one 
year  he  was  prisoner  of  war.  For  another  he  was  racked 
and  wasted  by  a  painful  disease.  But  in  each  of  these  trials 
his  patience  was  edifying  and  his  faith  unyielding.  After 
his  recovery,  as  he  was  one  day  riding  out  in  a  new  suit  of 
clothes,  he  met  a  gentleman  who  seemed  by  his  raiment  to 
be  poor  and  decayed,  Francis  instantly  stopped  and  ex- 
changed clothes  with  him. 

His  most  frequent  dreams  were  of  spiritual  victories 
through  poverty,  charity  and  self-denial.  They  tell  how 
he  coveted  the  most  repulsive  tasks,  how  he  would  kiss  the 
sores  of  lepers,  and  put  his  own  garments  on  the  vilest 
beggars  of  the  street.  Though  his  parents  were  rich,  and 
he  was  brought  up  to  habits  of  thrift,  he  took  strange  com- 
fort in  the  society  of  the  penniless  and  the  outcast.  All 
his  visions  seemed  to  him  to  say,  "Give  and  spare  not." 
One  day,  as  he  was  praying  before  a  crucifix  outside  the 
walls  of  Assisi.  he  heard  three  times  a  voice,  which  said, 
*'  Francis,  go  and  repair  my  house,  which  thou  seest  fall- 
ing." This  he  construed  into  a  literal  command  to  repair 
the  decaying  Church.  And  forgetting  the  law  of  honesty 
in  his  zeal  to  obey  the  command,  he  went  and  got  a  horse- 
load  of  cloth  out  of  his  father's  shop,  sold  both  horse  and 
cloth  in  a  neighboring  town,  and  brought  the  price  to  the 
parish  priest.  This  cautious  functionary  did  not  like  to  take 
it.  So  Francis  left  it  Ivino^  in  the  window,  and  there  his 
father  found  it  when  he  discovered  the  affair.  The  result 
of  this  was  first  a  flogging,  then  an  imprisonment  in  chains, 
and  finally,  when  his  mother  had  let  him  out,  a  separation 
from  his  home. 

His  father  gave  him  the  alternative  of  coming  home 
again    like  a  decent  son  or  formally  giving  up  all  claim 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.    FEANCIS.  221 

to  the  inheritance.  The  last  condition  Francis  joyfully 
accepted,  and  went  in  it  beyond  his  father's  desire.  For 
he  stripped  himself  of  his  clothing,  and  gave  it  to  his 
father,  saying,  cheerfully  and  meekly,  "  Hitherto  I  have 
called  you  father  on  earth  ;  but  now  I  say  with  more  con- 
fidence, Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven,  in  whom  I  place 
all  my  hope  and  treasure."  The  bishop,  who  stood  by  ad- 
miring his  zeal,  ordered  some  garments  to  be  brought  for 
him.  The  first  at  hand  was  a  peasant's  coarse  cloak.  The 
vouno^  man  marked  it  with  chalk  with  the  siirn  of  the 
cross  and  put  it  on.     It  became  his  permanent  dress. 

Francis  was  twenty-five  years  old  when  he  was  thus  cast 
upon  the  world,  without  money,  without  friends,  with  no 
handicraft,  and  no  resource.  He  set  off  on  his  wander- 
ings however  full  of  faith,  and  thinking  only  how  he 
might  help  the  poor  and  execute  Christ's  commission. 
Where  there  was  squalidness,  suffering  or  disease,  there 
he  was  sure  to  be  found.  In  the  prison  and  the  hospital, 
he  knelt  before  the  profane  and  the  unclean.  He  cared 
for  no  abuse  and  no  humiliation.  When  a  party  of  rob- 
bers, who  had  asked  him  his  business  in  their  haunts  and 
had  heard  his  answer  that  he  was  the  herald  of  the  ^reat 
King,  had  flung  him  into  a  ditch  full  of  snow,  he  only 
praised  God  for  the  good  chance.  When  he  came  across 
a  new  church  in  the  process  of  building  he  not  only 
begged  the  means  of  its  completion,  but  he  carried  up 
himself  the  heavy  stones  as  the  servant  of  the  masons. 
Feeling  however  that  he  was  not  yet  prepared  to  be  an 
apostle,  he  went  apart  to  a  little  church  called  the  Por- 
tinneala,  about  a  mile  from  iVssisi,  where  two  years  were 
spent  in  the  most  rigid  exercises  of  fleshly  denial.  In 
prayers  and  tears,  in  meditation  upon  the  sufferings  of 
Christ,  in  exposure  to  the  hardest  weather,  he  found  his 
luxury  and  joy.  Reading  those  words  of  Christ,  ''  Carry 
not  gold  or  silver,  or  scrip  for  your  journey,  or  two  coats 
or  a  staff,"  he  instantly  gave  away  his  money,  shoes,  staff 
and  girdle,  and  kept  only  a  single  cloak,  which  he  bound 
round  him  with  a  cord.  Soon  his  fame  was  noised  abroad 
and  manv  came  out  to  see  the  miracle  of  self-denial.  The 
narrative  of  his  earlier  conversions  is  quaint  and  touching. 
Bernard  of  Quintaval,  a  rich   merchant  of    Assisi,  and   a 


222  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FBANCIS. 

man  of  wisdom,  and  authority,  hearing  of  the  devotion  of 
the  young  hermit,  invited  him  to  come  and  sleep  at  his 
house  one  night.  At  midnight,  when  Bernard  seemed  to 
be  fast  in  skimber,  Francis  arose,  fell  on  his  knees,  and 
making  with  his  arms  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  repeated  all 
night  with  every  sign  of  love,  praise,  gratitude,  penitence 
and  devotion,  with  streaming  eyes  and  choking  utterance, 
"My  God  and  my  all,"  "  Deus  meus  et  omnia."  But 
Bernard  was  secretly  watching  him,  and  when  morning 
came  he  begged  Francis  to  take  him  as  a  companion. 
Soon  other  prominent  men  joined  them,  and  when  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  year  1209,  the  Saint  brought  back  from 
Innocent  at  Rome  his  consent  to  the  new  Order,  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven  disciples  assembled  at  the  little 
church  to  call  him  their  leader.  This  was  five  years 
before  Dominic  gained  from  the  Pope  a  sanction  to  his 
scheme. 

Of  this  number,  in  imitation  of  Jesus,  Francis  chose 
twelve  to  be  his  special  companions  and  friends.  The 
first  and  most  positive  rule  which  he  laid  down  for  them 
was  absolute  poverty.  They  were  to  own  no  house,  no 
furniture,  not  even  the  clothes  which  they  wore.  They 
were  to  receive  the  alms  of  the  charitable  only  as  a  trust, 
to  provide  no  prospective  store  of  food  or  raiment,  but 
depend  only  on  the  Providence  of  God.  This  order 
should  recall  to  men,  as  no  other  had,  the  sufferings  of 
Him  who  had  no  place  to  lay  his  head,  who  was  born  in  a 
stable  and  died  naked  upon  a  cross.  It  should  exemplify 
to  the  world  all  the  heroic  graces  of  poverty,  those  sacred 
beatitudes  which  can  appear  only  in  lives  freed  from  the 
goods  of  the  world,  humility,  meekness,  patience  and 
fortitude.  It  should  be  separate  from  the  worldly  passion 
which  wealth  engenders,  which  had  so  fatally  corrupted 
the  other  monastic  foundations.  The  monk  professed  to 
be  a  disciple  of  Christ.  Francis  would  have  his  whole 
life  a  visible  proof  of  that  vow,  and  the  monks  indeed 
saw  it  in  the  life  of  their  founder.  The  old  chronicles 
weary  in  describing  Francis'  ingenuity  of  penance  ;  how 
he  sewed  his  coat  with  packthread  to  make  it  rougher; 
how  he  slept  upon  the  ground,  with  a  stone  for  a  pillow ; 
how  he  put  ashes  upon  the  hard  crust  which  was  his  sole 


.sr.    DOMINW  AND   ST.    FliANCIS.  223 

food,  to  take  away  the  taste ;  how  he  lay  in  the  snow  that 
his  unholy  passions  might  be  chilled  out  of  him  ;  how  he 
named  his  body  after  the  meanest  beast  of  burden,  and 
commanded  his  friars  to  call  him  by  the  vilest  names.  In 
our  modern  day  men  sometimes  accuse  themselves  of  sins, 
but  do  not  like  tojiave  others  agree  to  it.  Francis  on  the 
contrary  directed  his  men  to  repeat  to  him  very  often, 
"  Brother  Francis,  for  thy  sins  thou  has  deserved  to  be 
buried  in  the  very  bottom  of  hell." 

Another  rule  which  Francis  gave  and  exemplified  was 
the  rule  of  obedience.  He  carried  this  farther  than  the 
convent  system.  There  the  monks  were  to  obey  their 
superior.  But  his  friars  were  all  according  to  Christ's 
direction  to  be  servants  of  each  other.  He  delighted  to 
obev  the  merest  novice,  and  would  never  allow  anv  but 
the  lowest  honor  to  be  given  to  himself.  He  forbade 
anything  by  which  one  brother  should  be  singled  out,  or 
observed  more  than  another,  did  not  want  any  eccentric 
friars  about  him ;  at  the  same  time  he  encouraged  the 
utmost  openness  and  freedom.  Everyone  of  his  followers 
should  appear  just  as  he  was :  he  would  have  no  con- 
cealment. He  rebuked  a  brother  who  undertook  by  signs 
alone  to  confess  his  sins. 

But  it  did  not  suit  Francis  to  remain  quietly  in  a  con- 
vent, even  though  he  might  indulge  at  will  in-  the  practice 
of  pious  austerities.  His  order  was  to  be  a  missionary 
order,  and  he  felt  that  the  new  manifestation  of  the  life  of 
Christ  ought  not  to  be  shut  up  in  any  place.  Like  his 
divine  Master  therefore  he  went  about  in  the  villages  and 
the  cities,  preaching  the  truths  of  poverty  and  humility, 
but  showing  them  more  eloquently  in  his  mean  garb  and 
his  unwearied  help  of  the  poor.  His  disciples  went  out 
too.  In  less  than  three  years  more  than  sixty  monasteries 
had  been  founded  under  the  new  rule.  In  the  large  cities 
of  Italy,  the  Minor  Friars,  as  they  were  humbly  called, 
might  be  seen  everywhere  where  there  was  suffering  or 
misery,  praying  at  the  pauper's  death-bed,  carrying  bread 
by  midnight  to  the  plague-stricken,  or  passing,  bent  and 
downcast,  along  the  streets  where  students  and  nobles 
thronged,  asking  an  alms  for  the  love  of  Jesus. 

In  the  year  12 15,  as  we  before  mentioned,  Dominic  and 


224  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FliANCIS. 

Francis  met  at  Rome.  Each  brought  to  the  Pope  a 
delightful  testimony,  the  one  an  eloquence  that  recalled 
the  Pentecost  season  of  the  earlv  Church,  the  other  a  life 
that  repeated  the  love  of  the  first  disciples.  The  hearts 
of  the  two  reformers  instantly  came  together,  and  they 
established  a  perpetual  bond  of  friendship  between  their 
orders.     Each  supplied  what  the  other  wanted. 

In  1 2 19,  ten  years  after  its  foundation,  the  first  general 
chapter  of  the  Order  of  St.  Francis  was  held  near  the 
little  church  which  had  been  his  hermitage.  Five  thousand 
friars  came  there  together  to  tell  of  what  they  had  done, 
and  to  receive  new  commissions.  Some  were  sent  out 
now  to  distant  heathen  regions,  to  the  Moors  of  Africa 
and  the  Scythians.  Francis  joined  himself  to  the  sixth 
crusade,  which  was  then  warring  with  the  infidels  upon  the 
Nile.  Burning  with  zeal  for  the  conversion  of  the 
Saracens,  he  went  boldly  into  their  lines,  was  seized  by 
the  sentinels,  and  brought  before  the  Sultan.  "  I  am 
sent,"  said  he,  "by  the  Most  High  God,  to  show  you  and 
your  people  the  way  of  salvation."  The  courage  which 
he  showed  and  the  fiery  trials  which  he  offered  to  pass 
made  such  an  impression  upon  the  Sultan,  that,  like 
Agrippa,  he  was  almost  persuaded  to  become  a  Christian. 

But  I  should  fear  to  fatigue  you  in  rehearsing  the  various 
and  unwearied  labors  of  this  singular  monk.  His  jour- 
neys, his  charities,  his  works  of  wonder  and  of  love,  the 
visions  which  he  had,  the  consolations  which  came  to  him ; 
how  his  Order  grew  and  toiled  and  flourished,  till  the 
nobles  of  the  state  were  almost  ready  to  worship  these 
beggars  of  the  street,  and  the  Pope  found  his  dream 
coming  true,  that  Francis  was  a  pillar  of  the  church.  All 
this  is  recorded  by  the  pious  followers  who  have  eulogized 
the  saint. 

The  most  extraordinary  event  however  in  the  life  of 
Francis,  which  was  attested  and  believed  in  by  a  large 
number  of  excellent  witnesses,  was  his  seraphic  vision  on 
Mount  Alverno.  I  relate  it  as  an  instance  of  credulity 
and  imagination  characteristic  of  the  Middle  Ages.  On 
the  fifteenth  of  September,  Francis  being  in  prayer  on  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  and  in  a  high  state  of  spiritual  exal- 
tation, saw  a  seraph  with  six   shining   wings,  blazing  with 


ST.    DOMINIC  AND   6T.    FRANCIS.  225 

nre,  bearing  down  from  the  highest  part  of  the  heavens 
towards  him,  with  a  most  rapid  tiight.  Between  his  wings 
was  a  figure  of  a  man  crucified,  with,  his  hands  and  feet 
stretched  out  and  fastened  to  the  cross.  After  Francis 
had  meditated  some  time  upon  the  vision  and  settled  upon 
its  spiritual  meaning,  it  disappeared.  He  discovered  then 
that  the  impression  had  been  left  not  m.erely  upon  his 
soul  but  upon  his  body  also  ;  that  the  crucifix  was  stamped 
upon  his  body,  and  on  his  hands  and  feet  were  the  marks 
of  the  nails,  he  could  see  their  black  heads  on  one  surface 
and  their  clinched  points  on  the  other.  In  his  side,  too, 
he  found  a  red  and  bleeding  wound.  Francis  tried  to 
conceal  this  wonderful  vision  from  his  friends,  and  assumed 
against  the  custom  of  his  order  gloves  for  his  hands  and 
stockings  for  his  feet.  But  he  was  unable  to  prevent  the 
discovery,  and  after  his  death,  when  the  body  was  exposed, 
the  legend  runs  that  thousands  of  monks  and  nuns,  and  of 
common  people  kissed  these  miraculous  signs  of  the  holy 
imitation  of  Christ.  The  Pope  in  a  solemn  bull  con- 
firmed the  fact.  And  it  is  on  record  with  the  sign  manual 
of  the  infallible  head  of  the  Church  that  St.  Francis  was 
appointed  visibly  to  restore  the  crucifixion  of  the  Saviour. 
The  story  may  not  be  believed  by  us  now,  but  it  is  not  in 
itself  more  irrational  than  many  marvels  of  chairs  and 
tables  which  men  of  good  sense  admit  to  be  bevond  their 
power  to  explain. 

The  two  years  which  remained  after  this  vision  to 
Francis  upon  the  earth  were  years  of  prolonged  martyrdom 
and  heroic  endurance.  There  was  no  pain  that  did  not 
torment  him,  there  was  no  privation  that  he  did  not  meet. 
His  eyes  were  diseased  so  that  sight  was  nearly  gone. 
His  limbs  refused  to  bear  him.  Yet  he  would  still  weep 
and  kneel,  and  his  answer  to  God  was.  "O  Lord,  I  return 
thanks  to  thee  for  the  pain  I  suffer.  I  pray  that  thou  wilt 
add  to  them  one  hundred  times  more,  if  such  be  thy  holy 
will."  He  gave  as  a  testament  to  his  friars  that  they 
should  work  diligently  with  their  hands,  not  for  personal 
gain,  but  for  the  example  of  industry.  He  gave  directions 
about  his  burial,  that  his  body  should  be  laid  by  the  side 
of  the  bodies  of  criminals  on  the  hangman's  hill.  When 
his  last  hour  had  come,  he  would  have  them  lay  him  upon 

15 


226  ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FltANCIS. 

the  ground,  and  cover  him  only  with  an  old  coat,  that  he 
might  die  in  the  same  poverty  that  he  had  lived.  They 
tell  how  he  gave  in  this  posture  his  blessing  to  all  his 
weeping  followers,  and  exhorted  them  with  his  final  breath 
to  constant  poverty,  how  he  repeated  the  words  of  John 
where  the  passion  of  Christ  is  described,  how  he  broke 
out  in  the  words  of  the  one  hundred  and  forty-second 
Psalm,  "  Domino  voce  mea  clamavi,"  and  as  the  last  sen- 
tence, "Bring  my  soul  out  of  prison,  that  I  may  praise 
thy  name,"  fell  from  his  trembling  lips,  how  softly  the 
spirit  ceased  with  him  and  went  away  to  its  heaven.  It 
was  a  solemn  sight  too,  when  his  body  was  laid  in  the 
convent,  and  the  mark  of  the  cross  upon  it  exposed  to 
view,  to  see  the  reverence  and  wonder  with  which  crowds 
approached  and  kissed  that  poor  wasted  frame,  not  merely 
of  the  poor  whom  he  and  his  had  succored,  but  of  the 
noble  who  acknowledged  here  a  surpassing  sanctity,  and 
of  the  rich,  who  thus  confessed  that  it  was  better  to 
lay  up  treasures  in  heaven  than  on  earth. 

The  order  of  Minor  Friars  which  St.  Francis  founded 
has  come  down  in  history  with  various  names,  according 
as  the  special  objects  predominated.  There  are  the  Con- 
ventual Friars,  who  dwell  in  the  monasteries  together  and 
do  not  wander  about,  and  the  Observantins,  or  Friars  who 
keep  up  the  strict  rule  of  their  founders.  In  Paris,  the 
Franciscans  are  called  Cordeliers,  from  the  cord  which 
they  wear.  They  gave  the  name  to  a  famous  club  of  the 
revolution.  In  Spain  they  are  the  Bare-footed  Friars,  and 
the  Grey  Friars,  each  of  which  have  had  their  eminent 
saints.  In  Italy,  the  traveler  sees  everywhere  the  Capu- 
chin Friars  who  have  swarmed  in  that  land  for  three 
centuries,  distinguished  from  others  by  their  long  beards, 
their  grey  dress,  and  the  patch  on  the  back,  and  their 
catacombs  of  human  bones  and  mummies.  Various  orders 
of  Nuns  adopted  the  rule  of  Francis ;  there  were  Grey 
nuns,  ]]lack  nuns,  and  Capucliin  nuns.  St.  Francis,  too, 
as  well  as  St.  Dominic,  establislied  a  third  order  which 
should  do  the  chief  work  of  the  Friar's  life,  without  being 
obliged  to  take  all  his  vows.  And  from  this  third  order 
have  come  the  Brothers  of  Mercy,  "  Fratres  Misericordiae,"' 
that  are   celebrated  in  the  accounts  of  the  plague,   and 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND   ST.   FJiANCIS.  227 

may  be  met  in  any  Italian  city,  and  the  Sisters  of  Charity, 
whom  you  may  see  on  any  Sunday  in  our  cities  walking  in 
solemn  procession  to  the  Catholic  churches. 

The  increase  of  the  Mendicant  Orders  in  the  Middle 
Ages  was  marvellous  beyond  conception.  Long  before 
the  Reformation  they  were  counted  by  thousands  of  con- 
vents and  myriads  of  monks.  The  older  foundations  of 
the  Benedictines,  the  Cistercians,  and  the  Carthusians, 
were  wholly  eclipsed  by  the  swarm  of  Friars  that  now 
darkened  all  the  streets  and  highways.  Five  from  each  of 
the  orders  were  raised  to  the  highest  dignity  and  sat  in 
Peter's  seat. 

St.  Dominic's  foundation  gave  forty-eight  cardinals,  St. 
Francis'  fortv-five  to  the  Church,  and  of  the  lowest  orders 
of  the  clerory  ^^  incredible  number  were  taken  from  the 
ranks  of  the  Mendicants.  The  Preaching  Friars  alone 
are  known  to  have  given  more  than  fifteen  hundred 
bishops.  Echard,  in  his  history  of  the  Order,  takes  pains 
to  give  their  names  and  the  lives  of  the  most  eminent. 

To  draw  a  parallel  between  these  two  great  religious 
orders  in  their  history  and  their  inliuence  upon  the  Catholic 
faith,  would  not  be  easy.  For  the  separate  idea  with  which 
they  set  out  was  not  faithfully  preserved,  more  than  the 
harmony  of  their  founders  was  kept.  In  some  places  the 
Franciscan  became  a  preacher,  and  the  Dominican  a 
beggar,  and  when  each  became  numerous  and  powerful, 
their  brotherly  love  was  changed  to  rivalry.  By  turns 
they  shared  the  Papal  power.  In  the  days  when  heresy 
was  most  rife,  and  new  theology  was  casting  contempt 
upon  the  dogmas  of  the  Church,  then  the  Dominican  was 
in  power.  It  was  his  stern  voice  that  declared  the  sen- 
tence of  the  tribunal  of  faith,  and  he  stood  by  to  direct 
when  the  faggot  was  lighted.  In  the  region  where  want, 
and  misery,  and  crime  most  abounded,  where  license 
degraded  the  profession  of  holiness,  and  priests  were  not 
ashamed  to  partake  in  all  the  vices  of  the  world,  there  the 
Franciscan  was  omnipresent,  the  living  rebuke  to  those  who 
profaned  the  memory  of  the  Apostles  and  the  command 
of  Christ.  In  the  turbulent  provinces  of  Spain  and  France, 
when  fanatics  dared  to  question  the  creed  of  the  Fathers, 
there  the    Preaching    Friar  was    at    hand    to    defend  the 


2  28  ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FRANCIS. 

Catholic  faith  or  to  minister  its  terror.  In  the  luxurious 
and  lustful  cities  of  Italy,  where  priests  lived  in  palaces 
and  beg^o;ars  swarmed  along  the  highwa}-,  there  the  Francis- 
can could  show  how  poverty  might  be  the  way  of  salvation. 

The  warfare  of  the  first  order  was  with  errors  of  the 
reason.  They  set  themselves  resolutely  against  all  schemes 
and  ways  for  philosophizing  about  the  truth  of  God,  The 
scholars,  the  doctors,  the  colleges  were  their  foes,  and 
since  these  could  be  overthrown  only  with  their  own 
weapons,  the  order  of  St,  Dominic  gradually  became  the 
masters  of  science  and  assumed  the  ancient  glory  of  the 
Benedictines,  In  less  than  thirty  years  after  the  death  of 
the  saint  the  chairs  of  the  University  of  Paris  were  in 
possession  of  his  disciples.  They  became  the  cham- 
pions in  controversy,  and  the  Pope  recognized  in  them 
the  organs  of  the  mind  of  the  Church, 

The  warfare  of  the  second  order  was  with  errors  of  the 
life.  They  were  the  sworn  and  persevering  foes  of  all 
simony,  all  luxury,  all  mammon-worship.  They  set  them- 
selves against  lazy  priests,  who  made  of  the  Church  a 
pasture  to  feed  in  or  a  spoil  to  prey  upon.  To  lower  the 
standard  of  clerical  gain,  to  take  away  the  temptation  of 
the  sacred  office,  to  make  the  Church  of  God  an  enemy, 
and  not  an  ally,  of  the  world,  and  to  bring  back  the  old 
Judean  time,  this  was  their  substantial  aim.  They  became 
the  militia  of  the  Apostolic  kingdom.  They  were  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  Pope's  array,  who  followed  its  cham- 
pions. He  recognized  in  them  the  practical  force  of  the 
Church. 

And  these  two  orders,  about  confirming  which  the  Pope 
hesitated  long,  became  the  bulwark  of  the  Papacy  in  its 
long  struggle  to  keep  its  acquired  supremacy.  They  were 
allies  of  Rome  against  the  Church.  They  stood  between 
the  Councils  and  the  chair  of  Peter,  between  the  murmurs 
of  bishops  and  kings  and  the  will  of  the  spiritual  sover- 
eign. When  dark  times  came  his  Holiness  could  count 
upon  them.  For  the  execution  of  any  scheme  they  were 
his  untiring  ministers.  It  was  a  Dominican  who  could 
control  the  elections  of  Poland,  so  that  none  but  a  Catholic 
ruler  should  hold  sway  there,  A  Franciscan,  the  great 
Cardinal   Ximenes,  was  the  ruler  behind  the  throne  in  the 


ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST'.   FliANCIS.  229 

Court  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  These  Mendicants  were 
everywhere,  in  the  palace,  in  the  tavern,  in  the  village 
church,  and  in  the  secret  assembly.  Their  hands  guided 
the  pens  of  statesmen,  their  eyes  watched  the  plots  of 
conspirators,  their  cunning  threatened  the  schemes  of  the 
ambitious.  Under  the  white  cowl  of  the  Dominican  there 
was  a  stern  soul  that  knew  no  yielding  or  compromise,  and 
counted  no  means  too  hard  to  compass  its  end.  Under 
the  grey  robe  of  the  Minor  Friar  there  was  a  patience,  an 
energy  and  a  faith  that  made  him  the  most  dangerous  of 
foes.  If  the  first  became  a  victor  and  a  judge  for  the 
Holy  See,  to  sit  in  its  courts  and  to  sentence  its  criminals, 
the  second  became  a  spy  of  the  Holy  See,  to  discover  the 
false  dealings  of  the  world  and  the  Church,  and  make  due 
report  thereof.  The  terror  of  the  one  followed  hard  upon 
the  presence  of  the  other. 

The  mendicant  orders  became  the  pillars  of  the  Papacy. 
But  they  have  been  the  bane  of  freedom,  of  light,  and  of 
progress,  since  their  beginning,  and  they  will  ever  be. 
They  have  blocked  the  pathway  of  science,  they  have  de- 
graded the  soul  and  the  life.  By  them  great  men  like 
Galileo  have  been  put  to  silence,  by  them  beggary,  and 
idleness,  and  falsehood  have  been  reconciled  to  the 
Christian  life.  A  few  inventions  indeed  lay  claim  to  a 
parentage  among  them.  They  boast  the  names  of  Swartz 
and  Roger  Bacon. 

But  these  are  rare  exceptions  to  the  general  spirit.  The 
chief  agency  of  the  Friars  has  been  to  debase  the  mind  of 
the  world.  Their  word  in  the  ear  of  princes  has  been 
antagonistic  to  the  counsels  of  wise  and  enlightened  men, 
and  where  their  advice  has  prevailed  there  we  have  seen 
superstition,  cruelty,  and  misery  to  grow  and  flourish.  In 
Spain,  the  land  of  bigotry,  of  darkness,  and  fear,  we  see 
the  result  of  Dominican  preaching  and  power.  In  Italy, 
the  land  of  pauperism,  indolence,  and  wretchedness,  we 
see  the  issue  of  Franciscan  example.  And  still  the  hooded 
friar,  with  silent  step,  is  the  conspicuous  object  in  the 
streets  of  Madrid  and  Segovia,  and  to-day  the  bare-footed 
and  servile  beggar  who  asks  your  alms  in  Naples  or  Rome 
is  reverenced  by  the  multitude  as  a  holy  man. 

It  is  this   result  of  their  systems  that  reacts  upon  the 


230  ST.   DOMINIC  AND  ST.   FBANCIS. 

lives  of  the  founders,  that  makes  Southey,  who  mourned 
over  desolate  Spain,  describe  St.  Dominic  as  a  monster, 
and  falsely  attribute  to  him  the  cruelties  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion which  he  never  invented  ;  that  makes  a  grave  American 
doctor  present  St.  Francis  as  a  hideous  impostor  and 
hypocrite,  with  no  shadow  of  proof  for  the  charge.  These 
men  were  not  certainlv  faultless.  But  candid  historians 
admit  that  they  have  better  claim  to  sainthood  for  their 
personal  worth  than  many  whose  labor  for  man  has  been 
of  more  avail.  A  Protestant  might  wish  that  the  zeal,  the 
trust,  and  the  single-mindedness  of  the  one,  with  the  forti- 
tude, the  charity,  and  the  self-sacrifice  of  the  other,  were 
more  common  among  those  who  abhor  the  ministry  of 
these  men  on  earth,  that  their  evangelical  spirit  might 
appear  more  in  those  comfortable  places,  where  a  luxurious 
and  worldly  life  casts  dishonor  upon  the  faith  and  the 
life  of  Christ.  When  the  Church  is  turned  to  defend 
oppression  and  pamper  the  vices  of  the  great  it  should 
cast  no  stone  at  such  as  Dominic  and  Francis. 


COP£ENICUS.  231 


IX. 

COPERNICUS    AND    HIS    WORK.* 

**  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God  and  the  firmament  showeth 
His  handiwork."     Psalm  xix,  i. 

In  our  day  the  grand  utterance  of  the  old  Hebrew  song 
has  been  cynically  denied,  and  the  professor  before  his 
class  has  insisted  that  the  heavens  do  not  declare  the  glory 
of  the  Lord,  but  only  the  glory  of  Copernicus  and  Kepler. 
A  foolish  cavil,  not  true,  and  scarcely  quaint.  For  the 
thought  of  Copernicus  and  Kepler  has  brought  grander 
evidence  of  Divine  order  in  the  Universe,  and  made  God 
more  conspicuous  in  the  phenomena  of  sun  and  stars. 
The  great  astronomers  have  been  true  prophets  of  the  Lord 
in  their  demonstrations.  They  have  made  the  heavens 
Lell  more  than  a  marvel,  and  have  opened  secrets  which 
were  hidden  from  the  ancient  Psalmist.  And  no  one 
would  be  quicker  to  repel  any  robbing  of  the  Divine 
Providence  in  the  way  of  sun  and  planets  for  the  praise  of 
even  the  wisest  men,  than  the  modest  doctor  who  gave  the 
truth  of  the  celestial  world. 

Who  was  this  wonderful  man,  so  audaciously  suggested 
as  a  rival,  if  not  a  substitute  for  the  Almighty .''  The 
occasion  of  his  four  hundredth  birthday  makes  it  a  fit  time 
to  speak  of  him,  of  the  work  which  he  did,  and  of  his 
influence  upon  the  following  ages.  Few  of  the  great  men 
of  the  world  are  as  little  known  as  he  in  personal  life  ; 
and  the  vague  impressions  which  most  persons  have  of  his 
spirit  and  character  are  far  from  correct.  Many  suppose 
that  he  was  a  bold  adversary  of  priests  and  the  Church. 
That  he  was  not ;  he  was  an  officer  of  the  Church  himself, 

*  A  Sermon  preached  on  the  four  hundredth  anniversary  of  Coper- 
nicus' birth,  March  2,  1873,  in  the  Unitarian  Church,  Ann  Arbor, 
Michigan. 


232  COPERNICUS. 


and  never  denied  the  faith.  Some  imagine  that,  like 
Galileo,  he  was  persecuted  for  his  opinions,  and  suffered 
reproach,  and  loss  and  pain.  Not  so  ;  he  was  honored 
by  the  Church,  and  no  anathema  was  upon  his  name.  He 
is  classed  carelessly  with  Luther  and  the  Reformers  ;  but 
Luther  and  the  Reformers  ridiculed,  despised  and  hated 
him,  Copernicus  was  a  grand  man,  a  noble  man,  and  a 
prophet  too ;  but  he  was  not  a  martyr,  not  a  combatant, 
not  a  man  called  to  fight  or  to  die  for  his  faith.  His  life 
was  pleasant  and  prosperous,  and  his  death  was  tranquil. 
He  escaped  the  fate  which  came  upon  his  followers  and 
disciples. 

No  complete  biography  of  Copernicus,  so  far  as  I  know, 
has  been  written  in  English,  and  very  few  sketches  of  him 
are  to  be  found  in  periodicals,  old  or  new.  A  Latin  life 
of  him  was  published  by  the  famous  astronomer  Gassendi 
more  than  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  within  the  last  half 
century  several  German  lives  of  him  have  appeared,  the 
most  complete  one  by  Dr.  Hipler,  three  or  four  years  since. 
The  introduction  to  most  astronomical  treatises  contains  a 
short  notice  of  the  father  of  the  modern  science ;  yet 
withal  Copernicus  is  hardly  better  known  to  students  than 
the  Pagan  astronomers  Ptolemy  and  Hipparchus.  He 
was  born  in  the  city  of  Thorn,  in  that  part  of  Poland 
which  now  belongs  to  Prussia,  on  the  nineteenth  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1473.*  His  father  was  a  wealthy  and  enterprising 
merchant  of  that  city,  and  his  mother  belonged  also  to  the 
prominent  family  of  Watselrede.  Her  brother  was  the 
Bishop  of  Ermeland.  The  child  had  his  father's  name, 
"  Niklas  Kopernigk,"  Latinized  afterwards,  according  to 
the  fashion  of  educated  men,  into  "  Nicolaus  Copernicus." 
His  early  education  was  in  the  best  schools,  and  at 
eighteen  he  was  a  student  in  the  University  of  Cracow,  at 
that  time  one  of  the  famous  Universities  of  Europe,  es- 
pecially by  its  scientific  teachings.  Here  Copernicus  was 
biased  towards  mathematical  and  astronomical  studies, 
mainly  no  doubt  by  the  fascinating  lessons  of  Bradjewski, 
a  rare  man  of  science.  After  four  years  spent  in  this 
University,  he  came  back  to  his  home,  to  receive  from  his 

*  Old  Style,  corresponding  to  March  2d,  New  Style. 


(JOPEBNICUS.  233 


uncle  the  appointment  of  Canon  in  the  cathedral  of 
Frauenburg.  But  the  rule  required  that  all  Canons  should 
have  a  degree  either  in  law,  theology  or  medicine. 
Copernicus  preferred  the  law,  and  accordingly  went  for  a 
three  years'  course  to  Bologna  in  Italy,  where  was  the 
great  Catholic  Law  School,  which  had  been  famous  for 
some  hundreds  of  years.  The  law  was  a  very  important 
profession  in  those  days,  in  the  Church,  especially  for  one 
who  had  to  advise  and  aid  the  Bishop  in  questions  of 
jurisdiction,  and  in  the  disputes  which  rose  between  the 
Bishops  and  the  Barons.  But  the  scientitic  passion  was 
strong  in  the  soul  of  Copernicus,  and  his  acquaintance  at 
the  University  with  a  Dominican  monk  who  was  versed  in 
Astronomy  fostered  this  passion.  His  life  at  Bologna 
was  not  altogether  happy.  His  means  gave  out.  A 
brother,  who  followed  him  to  Bologna,  added  to  the  burden 
of  his  expense.  He  had  to  give  lessons,  and  at  the  age 
of  twenty-seven  was  a  lecturer  on  mathematics  in  Rome, 
to  lar^e  audiences.  He  was  forced  to  return  for  a  time  to 
Prussia;  but  his  stay  there  was  short.  He  was  soon  back 
in  Bologna,  as  a  student  of  Greek,  as  well  as  of  Law ;  and 
then,  from  1501  to  1505,  was  for  four  years  a  student  of 
Medicine  in  the  University  of  Padua,  which  was  as  famous 
in  that  branch  of  knowledge  as  the  University  of  Bologna 
in  the  Law.  For  some  years  after  that  time,  he  was  the 
adviser  and  private  physician  of  his  uncle,  keeping  up  all 
the  time  his  astronomical  studies.  When  his  uncle  died, 
in  15 12,  he  returned  to  Frauenburg,  of  which  he  was 
Canon,  and  there  lived  quietly  for  many  years  as  student 
and  physician,  gieatly  trusted  by  the  successive  Bishops. 
When  the  Bishop  Maurice  died  in  1537,  Copernicus,  at 
this  time,  sixty  years  of  age,  was  one  of  the  four  candi- 
dates named  to  succeed  him.  Another  was  chosen,  yet 
Copernicus  remained  his  special  friend  and  medical  at- 
tendant, as  he  was  also  of  other  bishops.  His  quiet  life 
continued  until  the  year  1543,  when,  on  the  twenty-fourth 
of  May,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  he  died.  On  that  day,  the 
first  printed  copy  of  his  great  work  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  the  dyuig  man. 

This  great  work,  De  Revolutionibus  Orbium  Caelestium, 
was  finished   as  early  as   1530,  thirteen   years  before   the 


234  COPERNICUS. 


death  of  the  author,  remaining  in  manuscript  all  that  time, 
as  some  say,  on  account  of  the  author's  modesty,  as  others 
think,  because  he  dared  not  risk  the  publication  of  what 
might  be  charged  with  heresy.  Not  till  the  year  before  he 
died,  did  Copernicus  consent  to  give  his  work  to  the 
printer.  It  was  a  shrewd  device  of  his  to  dedicate  it  to 
Pope  Paul  III,  forestalling  so  its  possible  condemnation. 
The  Pope  accepted  the  Dedication,  and  was  flattered  by 
the  compliment.  Luther  and  Melancthon,  on  the  contrary, 
vehemently  denounced  the  book.  Luther  in  his  Table 
Talk,  calls  Copernicus  an  "  upstart  astrologer,"  a  fool, 
who  wishes  to  reverse  the  entire  science  of  astronomy, 
and  deny  the  word  of  Joshua,  who  commanded  the  sun  to 
stand  still  and  not  the  earth.  Melancthon  laments  that 
such  a  clever  dreamer  should  try  to  show  his  genius  in 
attempting  to  deny  what  is  evident  to  every  man  who  has 
his  eyes  open,  and  what  is  certainly  the  doctrine  of  revela- 
tion. Possibly  the  sentences  of  these  reformers  were 
embittered  by  the  fact  that  Copernicus  stayed  in  the 
Catholic  Church,  and  even,  as  it  was  supposed,  suggested 
a  work  composed  by  his  friend  the  Bishop  of  Kulm,  called 
the  Antilogicon,  which  exposed  the  errors  of  Luther.  He 
had  also  won  over  a  scholar  of  the  Reformers,  Rheticus, 
who  became  his  enthusiastic  admirer,  and  afterwards 
editor  of  his  great  work.  Doubtless  personal  feeling  had 
a  large  share  in  the  vituperations  of  the  Reformers.  This 
great  work  on  the  Revolutions  of  the  Heavenly  Bodies,  is 
the  work  by  which  Copernicus  is  known  in  history,  and  on 
which  his  fame  rests.  He  wrote  other  works,  some  of 
which  have  been  published,  and  some  of  which  still  re- 
main in  manuscript.  There  is  a  work  on  Trigonometry, 
and  another  on  Money,  and  another  entitled  the  Moral, 
Rural  and  x^matory  Letters  of  the  Scholar  Theophylact,  a 
singular  book  for  an  ecclesiastic  to  write.  It  is  probable 
that  some  of  the  treatises  which  he  wrote  are  lost ;  for  in 
those  many  years,  one-third  part  of  which,  according  to 
Gassendi,  were  given  to  study,  he  must  have  had  much 
time  for  the  use  of  his  pen.  His  books  were  written  in 
Latin,  but  the  language  of  his  correspondence  was  often 
in  German. 

The  new  doctrine,  and  the  important  doctrine,  of  the 


COPERNICUS.  235 


great  work  of  Copernicus,  which  gives  it  peculiar  signifi- 
cance, was  its  doctrine  of  the  movements  of  the  heavenly- 
bodies  around  the  central  sun.  Heretofore,  from  time 
immemorial,  and  always  in  the  Christian  Church,  the 
theory  had  been  that  the  earth  was  in  the  centre  and  im- 
movable, and  that  the  heavens  and  heavenly  bodies  re- 
volve around  the  earth.  This  was  the  accepted  fact,  the 
basis  of  calculation,  and  affirmed  in  the  Scripture,  as  well 
as  proved  to  the  eyes  of  men.  Sunrise  and  sunset  seemed 
to  show  the  movement  of  the  heavens,  and  the  appear- 
ance and  disappearance  of  stars  and  planets  were  evidence 
beyond  dispute  that  the  firmament  revolved  above  the 
heads  of  men.  The  thought  and  study  of  Copernicus  led 
him  to  believe  that  this  was  an  error,  that  the  earth  itself 
was  only  a  planet,  that  all  the  apparent  motions  could  be 
better  accounted  for  by  supposing  the  sun  in  the  centre, 
and  arranging  the  revolutions  of  the  other  wandering  stars 
about  the  source  of  light.  This  is  the  one  striking  idea 
of  the  book  of  Copernicus.  He  did  not  discover  the  laws 
of  planetary  motion  ;  that  was  reserved  for  Kepler.  He 
did  not  discover  Gravity  ;  that  is  the  glory  of  Isaac  New- 
ton. But  he  told  the  world  that  they  had  been  mistaken 
in  supposing  that  this  small  earth,  on  which  man  has  his 
dwelling,  is  the  centre  of  all  worlds,  which  all  the  rest 
serve  and  obev. 

It  is  by  no  means  certain,  nevertheless,  that  this  theory 
of  the  central  sun  was  an  original  idea  of  Copernicus. 
Before  the  birth  of  Jesus,  in  one  form  or  another,  it  had 
been  declared  by  Pagan  philosophers.  Pythagoras,  one 
of  the  earliest  Greek  sages,  had  set  the  sun  in  the  centre 
of  the  universe,  and  taught  that  the  earth  had  an  annual 
motion  around  it.  Philolaus,  at  a  later  day,  had  assigned 
to  the  earth  a  double  rotation,  around  the  sun  and  around 
its  own  axis,  though  he  had  strangely  sent  back  the  light 
from  the  sun  as  7'eflected  light,  treating  this  sun  as  a  great 
disk,  a  vast  mirror.  Appollonius  of  Perga,  more  than  two 
hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era,  had  told  of  the 
revolutions  of  the  planets  around  the  sun.  It  is  very- 
likely  that  Copernicus  knew  of  these  heathen  astronomers 
and  their  theories,  and  had  profited  by  them.  He  had 
certainly  read  in  the  work  of  Martianus  Capella  that  the 


236  COPERNICUS. 


Egyptians  believed  that  Mercury  and  Venus  went  around 
the  sun,  while  they  went  with  the  sun  annually  around  the 
earth  ;  and  also  that  Nicetas  of  Syracuse,  had  taught  a 
revolution  of  the  earth  around  its  axis,  to  account  for  dav 
and  night.  By  combining  these  ancient  theories,  the  doc- 
trine of  a  Central  Sun  was  the  natural  result. 

This  system  of  the  Universe  was,  as  Copernicus  pro- 
claimed it,  theoretical,  the  result  of  thought  and  mathe- 
matical study  more  than  of  practical  observation  of  the 
sun  and  sky.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Copernicus  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  direct  knowledge  of  the  heavens, 
or  any  experience  in  the  use  of  instruments.  The  tele- 
scope had  not  been  invented.  The  theory  was  hypothesis 
more  than  demonstration,  but  hypothesis  sustained  by 
ingenious  reasoning,  changing  wholly  the  presumption. 
The  Copernican  theory  had  this  at  once  in  its  favor,  that  it 
brought  order  into  the  movements  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
and  explained  many  things  which  the  common  theory  had 
left  unexplained.  The  geocentric  astronomy  was  full  of 
vexing  difficulties.  The  stars  were  in  their  wrong  places, 
the  planets  were  where  they  ought  not  to  be,  eclipses  came 
at  improper  times,  and  there  was  general  confusion  in  the 
universe.  The  new  theory  set  that  matter  right.  The 
universe  at  once  "came  to  order,"  when  the  majestic  sun 
took  the  chair  of  command.  The  eccentric  movements 
became  reasonable,  and  all  the  stars  now  sang  together 
instead  of  singing  a  discordant  song. 

This  was  the  direct  work  of  Copernicus  in  his  theory  of 
the  Universe.  This  was  what  Ae  intended  to  do.  But  there 
were  other  results  of  his  theory  which  perhaps  he  did  not 
foresee,  other  things  which  he  did  without  intending  them, 
yet  results  of  grave  moment  to  the  world  in  coming  ages. 
Copernicus  was  not  technically  a  religious  reformer,  and 
perhaps  never  dreamed  that  he  should  be  called  so  by  the 
men  of  a  future  time,  more  than  by  men  in  his  own  time. 
But  he  builded  better  than  he  knew,  and  he  must  be 
classed  wdth  the  greatest  of  religious  reformers.  His  ser- 
vice for  the  faith  of  man  was  large  and  inestimable.  And 
we  shall  best  remember  him  on  the  anniversary  of  his 
birth  by  noting  some  articles  of  his  service  to  the  world 
in  this  religious  kind. 


COPERNICUS.  237 


I.  And,  first,  the  new  doctrine  of  Copernicus,  was  vir- 
tually a  proclamation  that  the  letter  of  the  Bible  is  not 
to  ride  the  free  spirit  of  men.  Literally,  the  Scripture 
seemed  to  teach  another  doctrine.  From  Genesis  to 
Malachi,  from  the  Gospel  of  Matthew  to  the  Apocalypse 
of  John,  the  whole  Divine  Word  seemed  to  take  for 
granted,  if  not  to  assert,  that  the  heavens  were  migrant 
and  wavering,  while  the  earth  was  fixed  in  its  place.  "  Of 
old  hast  thou  laid  the  foundation  of  the  earth," — that  was 
the  sacred  refrain.  Did  not  God  create  the  earth  on  the 
first  day,  reserving  the  lights  of  the  heavens  even  to  the 
fourth  day  ?  Did  not  the  sun  stand  still  at  the  command 
of  the  Hebrew  leader — an  idle  order,  if  the  sun  were 
always  still  ?  Was  not  the  new  theory  a  denial  of  prophecy 
and  song,  which  tells  of  the  sun  in  his  "goings,"  going 
forth,  and  going  up  and  down,  from  one  end  of  the 
heavens  to  the  other  ?  Had  not  the  sun  on  Hezekiah's 
dial  deliberately  gone  backward?  Do  we  not  read  of  the 
pillars  on  which  the  earth  is  fixed,  so  stable,  so  eternal  ? 
Does  not  Habakkuk  show  the  Lord  stopping  the  sun  with 
the  moon,  and  making  them  stay  in  their  habitation  ? 
Shall  we  deny  the  word  of  John  the  Seer,  which  tells  how 
the  sun  shall  cease  to  appear  and  give  light,  while  the 
earth  shall  still  continue?  Nay,  did  not  the  Divine  Mas- 
ter tell  of  the  Lord  making  "  his  sun  to  rise  upon  the  evil 
and  the  good  ?"  Surely  these  words  of  Scripture  shall 
stand  against  any  daring  reversion  of  the  place  of  the 
spheres. 

Copernicus,  himself,  threw  down  no  defiance  to  this  let- 
ter of  the  Scripture,  but  his  theory  did.  His  theory  said 
virtually,  "  No  matter  what  the  letter  of  the  Bible  teaches 
in  this  thing,  we  are  not  to  be  bound  by  that,  or  to  be  hin- 
dered from  any  new  voice  of  the  spheres  by  those  ancient 
oracles.  The  scripture  is  not  to  control  our  reason,  our 
sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  what  we  see  of  the  way  of 
God's  working  or  the  order  of  Creation."  Galileo's  "^ 
pur  si  iniiove^^  of  the  next  century  was  in  the  theory  of  Co- 
pernicus, "  I  do  not  care  what  the  Bible  says,  the  earth 
really  moves."  The  declaration  and  the  reception  of  this 
theory  was  a  revolt  from  the  authority  of  the  written  word, 
not  only  as  a  dictator  of  science,  but  as  arbitrary  dictator 


238  COPERNICUS. 


of  anything.  There  are  those  who  attempt  to  make  dis- 
tinction in  what  they  call  the  "province  "  of  Biblical  teach- 
ing. They  say  now,  since  it  has  been  proved  that  Biblical 
geography  and  astronomy  and  cosmogony  are  at  fault,  and 
lead  astray,  that  the  Bible  was  "  never  intended  "  to  teach 
anything  of  that  sort,  and  that  it  is  only  infallible  in  what 
it  says  of  moral  and  religious  things  and  of  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  Such  a  distinction  is  wholly  arbitrary,  and  is 
only  a  poor  subterfuge  for  baffled  assumption.  The  line 
cannot  be  drawn  in  Biblical  teaching  between  its  truth  and 
falsehood,  except  by  enlightened  human  reason.  If  the 
/c'Ut'r  is  to  dictate  in  one  thing,  or  bind  reason  in  one  thing,  it 
may  in  all.  And  when  any  one  asserts  that  he  will  not  ac- 
cept the  account  of  Creation  in  Genesis  because  he  does 
not  believe  that  it  is  true,  he  may  also  assert  that  he  will 
not  receive  the  doctrine  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  or 
of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  if  these  too  shall  come  to 
seem  to  him  not  true.  Revolt  from  the  dictation  of  one 
part,  is  revolt  from  the  dictation  of  all.  Fortunately  Co- 
pernicus was  saved  from  that  poor  and  humiliating  task  to 
which  so  many  of  his  followers  have  been  drawn  or  driven, 
astronomers,  geologists,  chemists  and  the  rest,  of  attempt- 
ing to  harmonize,  as  they  call  it,  Scripture  and  Science,  to 
give  a  meaning  to  Scripture  different  from  its  real  mean- 
ing, sophisticate  its  clear  statements,  to  make  a  day  mean 
something  else,  and  a  year  something  else,  and  black  mean 
white  ;  to  get  around  these  difficulties  by  verbal  jugglery. 
That  need  was  not  laid  upon  him. 

2.  And  kindred  to  this  revolt  against  bibliolatry,  the 
theory  of  Copernicus  was  a  defia?ice  to  the  authority  of  the 
Church.  In  his  time,  the  Church  claimed  the  right  to  de- 
fine truth  in  all  branches  of  human  knowledge,  to  say 
what  should  be  taught  and  what  should  be  believed.  They 
had  exercised  that  right,  and  in  exemplary  fashion,  for 
long  before  Copernicus  was  born,  there  had  been  heretics 
of  science, —  men  burned  at  the  stake  for  errors  far  less 
momentous  than  that  of  settins:  the  sun  in  the  centre  of 
the  universe.  Copernicus  in  his  book  does  not  apologize 
for  this  defiance  of  the  Church,  or  pretend  that  he  is  saying 
anything  to  discredit  the  authority  of  the  Canons  and  Coun- 
cils.  He  asks  the  Pope  to  accept  and  bless  his  modest  book. 


COPEBNICUS.  239 


And  yet  he  must  have  known  that  his  book  was  an  innovation 
upon  the  teachings  of  the  Church,  an  assumption  of  wisdom 
above  any  which  had  come  from  Popes  and  Councils. 
The  old  theory  of  the  universe,  the  Ptolemaic  system,  had 
been  long  ago  baptised  and  adopted  as  the  system  of  the 
Christian  Church.  It  was  the  orthodox  system  all  over 
the  world,  as  much  as  anv  articles  of  the  creeds.  The  cal- 
endar  w^as  based  upon  it.  It  was  preserved  in  the  system 
of  religious  feasts  and  fasts  and  ritual.  It  had  satisfied 
forty  generations.  No  manual  for  a  revision  of  the  sys- 
tem had  been  issued,  and  the  novelty  was  certain  to  de- 
ransre  the  methods  of  the  Church  and  annul  its  edicts. 
This  Copernican  theory  virtually  said  to  the  Church, 
"Your  spiritual  wisdom  is  fallible,  and  in  this  great  matter 
it  has  all  along  been  folly.  In  spite  of  your  divine  illumi- 
nation, you  have  all  along  been  believing  a  lie,  and  leaving 
the  world  to  be  misled,  if  not  leading  the  world  into  dark- 
ness. You  have  not  told  to  men  this  great  law  of  the 
Divine  order,  which  to  the  eye  of  reason  is  so  clear,  and 
to  inspired  vision  ought  to  have  been  still  clearer  and  long 
ago  visible."  The  theory  of  Copernicus  not  only  was  a 
sarcasm  upon  the  ignorant  Church,  but  it  was  a  limitation 
of  the  sway  and  province  of  the  Church.  It  said  to  the 
world,  "  Here  is  something  which  the  Church  has  no  busi- 
ness in.  The  Church  tells  vou  about  Heaven  and  God, 
but  it  does  not  know  and  does  not  inquire,  it  is  not  fit  to 
know  and  inquire,  into  the  heavens  over  your  heads  or 
into  the  source  of  Heat  and  Light.  Do  not  go  to  the 
Church  to  learn  how  the  world  is  created  and  upheld.  Do 
not  go  to  the  Church  to  get  science  of  any  kind.  The  in- 
struments of  human  learning  are  not  to  be  found  in  con- 
claves of  cardinals  or  in  chapter  houses.  Little  do  these 
priests  know  of  what  the  world  needs  to  know  concerning 
the  laws  of  matter  and  motion."  Martin  Luther's  Reform, 
nearly  contemporary  with  the  Copernican  announcement, 
(for  the  two  great  men  were  only  ten  years  apart  in  their 
birth,  and  only  three  years  apart  in  their  dying)  was  not 
more  truly  a  defiance  to  the  authority  of  the  Church,  than 
the  treatise  on  the  Revolutions  of  the  Celestial  Worlds. 
Though  that  book  was  dedicated  to  a  Pope,  it  really 
burned  many  Papal  Bulls,  of  the  time  to  come  as  well  as 
of  the  former  time. 


240  COPEliNlCUS. 


3.  And  the  theory  of  Copernicus  was  equally  efficient 
in  subjecting  sensual  i??ipresswfis  to  the  laivs  of  mind  and 
thought.  What  he  told  seemed  to  be  directly  contrary  to 
the  eyidence  of  the  eye.  Do  we  not  see  the  sun  rise  and 
the  sun  set  ?  Do  we  not  see  the  stars  change  their  places  ? 
How  absurd,  too,  to  suppose  that  the  earth  can  turn  on  an 
axis  with  all  these  moyable  men  and  things  upon  it !  When 
it  is  bottom  upwards,  will  not  the  things  fall  off  ?  The 
theory  of  Copernicus  was  a  direct  denial  of  the  daily  ob- 
seryation  and  experience  of  men.  It  said  to  them,  "  Your 
experience  is  only  the  aggregation  of  your  obstinate 
ignorance.  Your  obseryation  is  only  illusion.  What  you 
seem  to  see  and  feel  is  not  what  you  really  see  and  feel; 
and  if  you  only  reflect  you  will  know  that  it  is  so.  Math- 
ematical laws  are  more  enduring:  and  trustworthy  than  the 
conclusions  of  sense.  The  eyidence  of  sense  is  second- 
ary, and  neyer  can  be  the  test  of  the  absolute  truth  of 
things.  What  men  think  to  be  impossible  because  they 
do  not  see  it  or  haye  not  seen  it,  may  be  the  grandest  of 
realities."  Of  course,  the  common  people,  and  some  of 
the  wise  people,  ridiculed  the  discoyery  of  Copernicus. 
Those  solid  Nuremberg  citizens,  with  their  fat  money  bags, 
sensible  men,  who  would  believe  nothing  that  their  eyes 
could  not  see  and  their  hands  handle,  said  that  the  man 
who  told  of  the  earth  turning  round  was  evidently  a  fool ; 
would  he  persuade  them  that  this  could  be  without  spilling 
all  their  warehouses  and  palaces  ?  They  had  a  medal  struck 
to  show  up  the  absurdity.  In  another  city,  Copernicus 
became  the  hero  of  a  farce,  like  Socrates  in  ancient  Athens. 
But  ridicule  could  not  silence  the  voice  of  reason,  or 
hinder  the  theory  from  making  its  way.  Even  if  they 
could  not  see  it,  men  should  come  to  believe  it.  They 
cannot  see  it  now  any  more  than  they  could  then.  The 
sun  seems  now  to  move  as  much  as  it  seemed  then  to 
move,  and  the  earth  to  be  as  much  at  rest.  Yet  every 
reasonable  man  knows  that  this  optical  impression  is  as 
truly  illusion  as  the  Maya  of  the  Indian  religion.  And  the 
inevitable  inference  from  this  is,  that  thought  and  study 
show  the  truth  better  than  any  passing  impressions,  that 
principles  are  more  to  be  trusted  than  pretences  and 
shows,  and  that  what  is  true  in  the  domain  of  Nature  may 
be  equally  true  in  the  domain  of  character  and  of  the  soul. 


COPEBNICUS.  241 


4.  Another  good  issue  of  the  Copernican  theory  is  that 
\\.  put  the  earth  into  its  proper  place,  and  took  it  out  of  its 
false  position.  Before  his  time,  the  Church  had  taught, 
and  men  had  believed,  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  Uni- 
verse so  important  as  the  earth,  and  nothing  of  much 
importance  except  the  earth  and  its  people  ;  that  God  had 
made  evervthinir  else  for  the  sake  of  this  and  men  dwellins; 
upon  it ;  that  the  sun  shone  by  day  and  the  moon  by  night, 
and  the  stars  from  their  distances,  mainly  to  give  light  and 
comfort  and  blessing  to  earthly  men ;  that  without  the 
earth  and  men  there  was  really  no  need  of  any  heavenly 
bodies.  The  Copernican  theory  overturned  that  compla- 
cent assertion,  and  showed  the  earth  a  satellite  of  the  sun 
instead  of  the  sun,  a  satellite  of  the  earth,  showed  the 
earth  obedient,  dependent,  keeping  course  according  to 
the  guidance  of  its  lord  in  the  sky.  By  the  sure  and 
natural  inferences  which  wise  men  would  draw  from  this 
theory,  the  other  planets  would  take  on  an  equal  dignity, 
and  the  sun  a  grander  state  than  all.  The  earth  once 
taken  from  the  centre  and  made  one  in  a  company,  the 
questions  might  come,  are  not  the  other  worlds  the  same  in 
substance  and  as  high  in  value  as  this  ?  May  there  not  be 
souls  to  be  saved  there  as  well  as  here.?  Are  not  these 
orbs  worthy  of  the  Divine  care  as  much  as  this  orb,  so 
much  smaller  than  some  of  the  others  ?  Is  not  God  in 
the  sun  as  much  as  in  the  earth  ?  And  is  it  not  pitiful  to 
limit  the  love  of  the  gracious  World — Father  to  a  small 
race  dwelling  in  this  narrow  habitation  ?  Indirectly,  the 
theory  of  Copernicus  is  a  satire  upon  the  scheme  of  salva- 
tion iterated  in  the  Churches,  which  shows  the  Creator  of 
Worlds,  who  holds  the  Universe  in  his  hands,  planning 
and  contriving,  like  a  puzzled  mechanic,  how  he  may  fix 
the  fate  of  the  denizens  of  one  small  planet,  which  is  com- 
pelled to  move  on  its  way  at  the  will  of  the  central  fire. 
The  Copernican  theory  in  no  wise  depreciates  man  and 
his  dignity,  or  the  worth  of  the  earth  on  which  he  dwells. 
But  it  brings  this  out  from  its  exceptional  place,  from  its 
sad  fate  to  be  holden  as  a  sick  child  in  the  arms  of  the 
great  Father,  and  shows  it  ruled  like  the  rest  of  the  planets, 
by  a  general   beautiful   order.      Copernicus   changed   the 

16 


242  COPERNICUS, 


purpose  of  the  Lord  in  his  universe  from  a  poor  specialty 
to  an  end  grandly  Cathohc. 

5.  And  in  general,  we  may  say  of  the  Copernican  theory 
that  its  highest  service  to  religion  is  in  opening  the  way  to 
a  true  natural  theology^  and  so  to  a  rational  theology.  It 
was  a  proclamation  that  the  Divine  Order  and  will  are  to 
be  learned  in  the  laws  of  the  Universe,  and  not  exclusively 
in  any  particular  revelation  at  any  particular  time,  to  any 
particular  people,  that  the  God  in  the  world  is  greater  and 
stronger  than  the  God  outside  of  the  world  or  the  God  of 
any  place  or  nation.  The  Copernican  theory  not  only 
enlarges  the  science  of  the  world,  and  sends  the  human 
mind  off  into  an  infinite  field  of  conjecture  and  discovery, 
but  it  enlarges  also  the  worship  of  the  world,  and  teaches 
men  how  to  pray  and  how  to  praise.  It  not  only  harmon- 
izes the  system  of  the  planets  and  explains  the  beautiful 
vicissitude  of  the  days  and  the  nights,  the  months  and  the 
years,  the  seasons  with  seed  time  and  harvest,  the  heat  and 
cold,  and  moist  and  dry,  rounding  all  in  a  majestic  sym- 
metry, which  even  includes  the  erratic  and  eccentric  flights 
of  comets  and  meteors,  but  it  harmonizes  as  well  the  sys- 
tem of  religions,  shows  that  the  ancient  sun-worship  was 
an  almost  divine  foretoken  of  what  science  justifies,  and 
that  the  adoration  of  the  elements  is  only  the  instinctive 
way  of  finding  God  in  his  works.  The  Copernican  theory 
rescues  the  faiths  and  the  prayers  of  the  heathen  from 
blank  darkness  and  destruction  of  soul,  and  suggests  that 
God  has  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations  of  men  to  feel 
after  him  and  to  find  him,  though  he  may  not  be  far  from 
anv  one  of  them.  For  the  religions  of  men  it  does  the 
same  work  that  it  does  for  the  planets  in  their  orbits, 
gathers  them  all  as  parts  of  the  family  around  the  central 
sun,  as  brethren  and  sisters  together,  not  the  greater  to 
tyrannize  over  the  less,  or  the  stronger  to  rule  the  weaker, 
but  all  in  balanced  rhythm  of  movement  to  repeat  the 
same  hymn  to  the  Lord  of  all, 

"  Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

Not  at  once  was  the  theory  of    Copernicus  accepted. 
Not  easily  did  it  make  its  way  against  blindness  and  preju- 


COPEBNICUS.  243 


dice  and  ignorance  and  bigotry,  of  the  world  and  of  the 
Church.  It  had  days  of  bitterness  to  pass  before  it  became 
the  recognized  rule  of  the  celestial  order.  Brave  men 
suffered  pains  in  confessing  it,  and  timid  men  lost  their 
honor  in  denying  it  while  they  believed  it.  But  it  made  its 
way  in  spite  of  all  hindrance,  for  it  was  frue.  From  time 
to  time  in  these  last  ages,  fantastic,  half-crazed  dreamers 
have  ventured  to  question  it,  and  to  affirm  the  old  dogma 
of  a  stable  earth  in  the  centre  of  a  wandering  sky.  No 
one  now  even  listens  to  such  folly.  The  Catholic  now 
is  earnest  to  claim  the  glory  of  Copernicus,  and  is  almost 
ready  to  write  his  name  as  the  name  of  a  saint.  The  nar- 
rowest theology  dares  not  deny  what  Copernicus,  and  Kep- 
ler, and  Newton,  and  Leibnitz,  and  Laplace,  and  how 
many  more,  have  demonstrated  as  the  system  of  the  Uni- 
verse ;  though  the  shrewd  preachers  must  fear  and  must 
see  that  it  is  the  prophecy  of  doom  to  all  narrow  limit  of 
salvation  to  a  mechanical  process,  or  to  a  chosen  few  in 
the  infinite  myriads  of  men  and  of  worlds.  The  geocen- 
tric theology  is  fated  to  go  where  the  geocentric  astronomy 
lias  gone ;  and  men  in  future  ages  will  marvel  that  the 
multitude  were  held  so  long  to  believe  a  scheme  which  nar- 
rowed the  love  of  the  Almighty  Lord,  and  the  work  of  his 
Holy  Spirit,  to  a  handful  of  souls  on  the  fragment  of  one 
of  the  innumerable  worlds. 


244  MARTIN  LUTHER. 


X. 

MARTIN    LUTHER. 

The  picture  of  the  sixteenth  century  reminds  me  of  a 
description  which  I  have  read  somewhere  of  the  show  in  the 
amphitheatre  in  the  time  of  the  Csesars.  Those  vast 
rings  of  benches,  rising  tier  above  tier,  are  all  filled  with 
a  careless,  restless,  excited  throng,  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands,  the  wise,  the  rich,  the  gay,  the  haughty, 
with  the  lowest,  fiercest,  most  worthless,  of  the  rabble. 
The  Emperor  and  his  household,  his  vassal  kings,  the 
priests,  and  the  soothsayers,  have  all  come  to  see  the 
strange  games  of  that  arena.  The  cheaper  combats  of 
beasts  are  soon  over.  The  gladiator  enters  alone  and 
unclothed  to  match  sinMv  his  wild  foes,  to  meet  first  the 
lion  and  the  tiger,  and  then  his  more  terrible  antagonist, 
man.  What  strifes  arise  in  that  2:reat  throno:  of  mvriads 
concerning  that  weak,  unaided  man!  Will  he  conquer! 
Shall  we  attend  to  him,  or  let  him  die  !  But  as  he  looks 
proudly  around  and  his  quick  blows  fall  with  no  show  of 
fear,  doubt  is  changed  to  wonder,  and  they  begin  to  sym- 
pathize. All  eyes  then  are  turned  upon  him,  and  all  tongues 
are  hushed.  The  priest  and  the  monarch  are  captive  to 
the  spell  of  such  daring  and  valor.  The  gladiator  becomes 
a  hero. 

So  do  I  see  the  nations  grouped  around  in  this  theatre 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  splendid  array,  kings,  and 
cardinals,  scholars,  philosophers,  poets,  races  of  the  South 
and  the  North,  with  the  vast  throngs  of  restless  masses, 
sitting,  range  on  range,  in  the  theatre  of  the  world.  The 
inferior  games  are  over,  the  petty  strifes  of  adjoining 
states.  Now  enters  the  arena,  where  lions  have  been 
fighting,  the  figure  of  a  monk,  solitary,  unarmed,  un- 
heralded. But  his  step  is  firm,  he  quails  not  before  that 
sea  of  faces,  he  springs  to  his  battle,  he   strikes  quick  and 


MARTIN  LUTHER,  245 

ringing  blows.  They  must  stop  from  their  wrangling,  for 
a  hero  is  here  ;  one  who  can  meet  calmly  the  lowering 
brow  of  the  priest,  and  fling  back  to  the  kings  that  would 
judge  him,  his  brave  defiance.  A  spiritual  gladiator  stands 
in  the  arena  of  the  world.  With  the  nations  lookinsr  down 
upon  him  Luther  waits  to  do  battle  for  freedom. 

In  the  storv  of  the  Reformation,  Martin  Luther  must 
ever  be  the  central  figure.  No  nice  criticism  of  temper  or 
motive,  no  new  discovery  of  the  worth  of  other  men,  can 
dispossess  him  of  that  honorable  rank.  His  name  has 
been  for  more  than  three  centuries  the  representative 
name  of  the  great  religious  movement,  and  it  will  continue 
to  be  forever.  It  may  be  shown  that  Melancthon  was 
more  learned,  that  Carlstadt  was  more  zealous,  that 
Zwingle  was  purer,  that  Calvin  was  more  severely  logical, 
but  Luther  will  still  stay  as  the  Achilles  of  the  host  which 
made  war  upon  Rome.  His  life  will  be  an  epitome  of  the 
History  of  Reform.  All  the  rest,  to  gain  significance, 
must  be  grouped  around  him.  He  is  as  central  and  as 
essential  as  the  figure  of  the  Christ  in  the  picture  of  the 
Last  Supper. 

Martin  Luther  was  born  at  the  little  town  of  Eisleben, 
in  Saxony,  on  the  tenth  day  of  November,  1483,  at  eleven 
in  the  evening.  His  father  was  Hans,  or  John  Luther,  a 
poor  laborer  of  the  most  common  class ;  his  mother, 
Margaret  Linderman,  was  a  house-servant,  pure  and  pious. 
There  were  other  children  older  than  Martin.  He  received 
his  name  from  the  Saint  on  whose  day  he  was  baptised. 
This  necessary  rite  of  baptism  was  administered  within  a 
few  hours  of  his  birth.  The  first  years  of  the  child  gave 
no  special  indications  of  any  future  greatness.  His  father 
removed  to  Mansfeld,  the  ducal  town,  where  he  took  up 
the  occupation  of  a  miner,  and  improved  thereby  his 
worldly  fortunes.  Martin  was  taught  to  read  and  write,  to 
say  his  prayers,  and  to  be  respectful  before  his  elders. 
Sometimes  the  monks  of  the  neighboring  convent  or 
oftener  the  schoolmaster  came  to  visit  the  miner  in  his 
home  ;  and  at  such  times  the  young  boy  who  listened  so 
well  was  not  neglected.  The  wise  parents  did  not  forget 
the  maxim  of  Solomon,  and  wholesome  chastisement  was 
not  excluded  from  their  system  of  training.     Luther  tell§ 


246  MABTIN  LUTHER. 

how  his  mother  beat  him  till  the  blood  came,  when  he 
took  one  day  a  poor  little  nut,  and  how  he  was  so  afraid  of 
his  father  that  he  ran  up  the  chimney  for  refuge  when  he 
had  accidentally  disobeyed  the  strict  paternal  rule. 

But  Luther  wanted  a  better  education  than  Mansfeld 
could  give  him.  At  Magdeburg  on  the  Elbe,  were  the 
charity  schools  in  which  the  pupils  paid  their  board  and 
tuition  from  what  they  could  collect  in  going  round  from 
house  to  house,  or  could  earn  in  the  churches.  Luther 
and  his  bosom  friend  John  Reinick,  set  out  on  foot  at  the 
age  of  fourteen,  with  knapsacks  on  their  backs,  sticks  in 
their  hands,  and  tears  on  tlieir  cheeks,  to  enter  on  this 
humiliating  and  hard  course  of  training.  Their  custom  at 
Ma2:deburo^  was  to  sing  twice  in  a  week  under  the  windows 
of  the  richer  citizens,  and  to  assist  in  the  Church  choirs. 
Luther  did  not  like  very  much  this  way  of  begging,  and 
did  not  succeed  in  it  so  well  as  his  companion.  After  a 
year's  trial  he  took  up  his  line  of  march  to  Eisenach, 
where  some  of  his  relatives  lived,  to  try  his  fortune  there. 
His  first  song  here  under  the  windows  of  a  fine  mansion 
in  the  chief  street  of  the  village  proved  to  be  a  very  for- 
tunate song.  The  lady  of  the  house,  dame  Ursula  Cotta, 
took  compassion  upon  the  poor  lad,  called  him  in,  placed 
him  at  her  table,  heard  his  tale,  and  became  his  patron 
and  second  mother.  With  what  she  did  for  him  and  what 
he  did  for  himself,  he  was  able  to  study  four  years  in  the 
Convent  school  of  Eisenach.  The  master  of  this  school, 
Trebonius,  was  a  humorist  and  a  fine  scholar,  though  he 
was  a  Carmelite  friar.  Luther  became  one  of  his  favorite 
pupils.  Trebonius  could  predict  eminence  for  this  boy, 
from  his  natural  gifts,  not  less  than  from  his  industry  and 
resolution.  His  fine  voice  was  beautiful  in  speech  and 
rich  in  song.  None  mastered  more  easily  the  intricacies 
of  grammar,  none  used  more  aptly  the  rules  of  rhetoric  ; 
and  his  poetical  studies  were  followed  by  poetical  attempts. 
These  four  years  at  Eisenach  were  of  the  highest  moment 
in  the  preparation  of  his  future  career.  Luther  referred 
always  with  gratitude  to  the  gifts  and  character  of  the 
good  lady  Cotta.  He  wrote  on  the  margin  of  his  German 
Bible  a  couplet  which  he  heard  for  the  first  time  at  her 
table  on  a  comment  on  the  thirty-first  chapter  of  the 
Proverbs  : 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  247 


"  Nothing  more  dear  than  woman's  love, 
To  him  who  may  its  blessing  prove." 

Her  son  became  afterwards  his  fellow-pupil  and  his 
favorite  disciple.  Luther  always  spoke  with  affection  of 
"my  dear  Eisenach,  where  I  was  myself  once  a  poor  men- 
dicant, seeking  my  bread  at  people's  houses." 

From  Eisenach  the  voun<r  student  at  the  asre  of  eijrhteen, 
went  to  the  University  of  Erfurt.  His  father,  now  in  easy 
circumstances,  consented  to  his  wish  for  a  larger  educa- 
tion in  this  famous  school.  He  saw  already  in  his  son  a 
magistrate  and  a  lawyer,  which  was  the  position  of  in- 
fluence in  his  view.  But  Luther  himself  studied  with  a 
different  view.  He  was  drawn  on  not  by  professional 
ambition,  but  by  the  love  of  knowledge  ;  and  he  preferred 
those  branches  which  disciplined  mind  and  charmed  fancy, 
to  the  merely  useful  knowledge  which  was  the  stepping- 
stone  to  power.  The  classic  writers,  Cicero,  Virgil,  and 
Livy,  relieved  his  severe  labor  in  the  dialectics  of  the 
schoolmen.  But  the  studies  which  he  most  prized  were 
those  of  theology  and  music.  "Music,"  says  he,  "is  the 
art  of  the  prophets ;  it  is  the  only  other  art  which,  like 
theology,  can  calm  the  agitation  of  the  soul,  and  put  the 
devil  to  flight."  He  learned  to  play  on  the  guitar  and  the 
flute,  and  when  his  ascetic  fervors  came  on,  these  instru- 
ments could  sweeten  and  sanctify  his  hours  of  penance. 
But  his  favorite  haunt  was  the  library  of  the  convent. 
Here,  among  other  literary  treasures,  he  found  the  Bible, 
newly  printed  in  attractive  dress.  It  was  in  Latin,  but 
Latin .  had  already  become  familiar  to  him  as  his  mother 
tongue.  He  read  in  this  book  with  delight.  It  opened  a 
new  world  before  him.  All  that  he  had  been  learninsf 
seemed  worthless  before  this  hisrh  wisdom.  He  lonsfed  to 
own  the  treasure.  His  mstructors,  eminent  as  they  were  in 
literature  and  science,  seemed  small  to  him  when  he  com- 
pared them  to  Moses  and  Paul.  He  began  now  to  feel 
the  emotions  of  a  religious  nature,  to  be  stirred  by  self- 
reproach,  and  to  suspect  under  the  leading  of  the  Eccle- 
siast  the  vanity  of  the  things  he  had  before  loved.  First 
his  own  sickness,  and  then  the  sudden  death  of  his 
nearest  friend,  confirmed  his  resolution  to  forsake  the 
world  and  live  for  God. 


248  MABTIN  LUTHER. 


The  vow  which  he  made  when  he  saw  his  friend  struck 
down  at  his  side  bv  lisfhtnins:,  he  was  not  slow  to  execute. 
And  though  he  had  just  taken  his  degrees  as  Master  of 
Philosophy  and  Art,  he  renounced  them  ;  sent  back  to  the 
University  his  s^own  and  rins:,  the  sisfns  of  his  diiinitv.  2:ave 
a  parting  musical  entertainment  to  his  friends,  and  on  the 
seventeenth  of  July,  1505,  in  his  twenty-first  year,  entered 
the  Augustinian  convent  at  Erfurt.  Under  his  arm  was  a 
little  package,  containing  merely  a  copy  of  Plautus  and 
Virgil.  He  knocked  at  the  convent  door.  "  Open,  in 
God's  name,"  said  he.  "  What  do  you  want,"  replied  the 
porter.  "To  consecrate  mvself  to  God."  "Amen!" 
answered  the  brother,  and  admitted  him. 

It  was  not  a  pleasing  step  to  Luther's  friends.  The  pro- 
fessors of  the  University  did  not  like  to  lose  a  pupil  so 
brilliant,  and  they  sent  his  classmates  to  remonstrate  with 
him  ;  he  would  not  see  them.  His  father,  indignant  and 
disappointed  at  the  failure  of  his  ambitious  schemes, 
answered  ans^rilv  the  letter  which  Luther  wrote  to  inform 
him  of  his  act.  But  the  resolve  had  passed  ;  the  step 
was  taken.  There  was  no  vieldinsr  in  this  man's  nature. 
The  gifted  student  went  straight  to  his  cloistral  cell,  and 
for  two  years  practised  there  the  austerities  of  monastic 
life,  taking  upon  himself  its  most  menial  offices,  sweeping 
the  cells,  opening  the  doors,  and  going  round  through  the 
neighboring  country  to  beg  for  the  convent.  But  they 
tell,  nevertheless,  of  the  relaxation  of  his  ascetic  pain, 
how  in  the  small  choirs  of  the  brethren,  his  fine  tenor 
voice  would  lead  the  Gregorian  chant,  how  the  hvmns  of 
the  Church  fell  sweetly  from  his  lips,  and  how  after 
preaching  to  the  shepherds,  he  would  lie  at  the  foot  of 
some  tree  and  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  their  simple  pipings. 

Like  the  fathers  of  the  Catholic  Church  Luther  had  his 
demoniac  experiences  in  this  period  of  his  life.  The 
devil  visited  him,  and  sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  feel 
that  the  devil  possessed  him.  But  this  early  experience 
was  made  harder  when  he  was  admitted  to  the  priesthood. 
In  1507,  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  old,  he  finished 
his  novitiate,  took  his  vows  and  celebrated  as  priest  his 
first  mass.     It  was  a   solemn   time  for  him  and    he  almost 


sank  under  the  burden  of  this  great  change.     He  felt  as 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  249 

if  all  faith  had  left  him  and  all  sin  were  upon  him.  His 
father's  presence  at  the  ceremony  was  an  additional  trial, 
for  he  knew  that  his  father  was  vexed  at  the  step  he  had 
taken.  He  hardly  dared  to  repeat  the  prayers  at  the  altar. 
And  it  touched  him  closely,  when  at  the  dinner  which 
followed,  his  father  asked,  "  Is  it  not  written  in  the  Word, 
that  a  man  should  honor  his  father  and  mother  ?  "  The 
joy  which  the  peasant  showed  at  his  ordination  did  not 
bring  joy  to  his  soul.  For  now  he  plunged  deeply  into 
the  mazes  of  the  doctrine  about  sin.  The  rector  of  the 
convent,  Staupitz,  was  a  believer  in  the  moral  inability 
of  man,  and  teaching  of  that  kind  could  not  raise  the 
soul  of  the  young  priest,  already  too  prone  to  accuse  him- 
self. He  kept  brooding  over  his  lost  and  ruined  state  till 
he  became  weak  and  sick.  Once  they  found  him  lying  on 
the  floor  of  the  cell  apparently  dead.  Only  music  could 
drive  out  the  demon  that  tormented  him.  The  sweet 
notes  of  his  flute  would  arouse  his  better  nature,  and 
make  him  for  the  time  forget  his  pains  and  his  sins.  In 
these  inner  torments  he  did  not  find  much  sympathy.  The 
monks  of  the  sixteenth  century  were  not  much  troubled 
by  the  visits  of  demons,  and  they  tried  to  argue  away  the 
vain  fears  of  their  brother.  But  the  nature  of  Luther  was 
not  one  to  be  reasoned  with.  Only  one  great  doctrine 
could  give  him  peace,  and  to  the  elaboration  and  clear 
vision  of  that  doctrine  his  soul  groaned  and  travailed. 

Luther  tells,  himself,  how  early  this  great  characteristic 
doctrine  of  "justification  by  faith  "  had  broken  upon  his 
soul.  When  a  schoolboy  he  was  struck  by  the  phrase  in 
St.  Paul's  Epistle,  "  the  justice  of  God  is  revealed  by 
faith."  And  when  the  terrors  of  the  law  began  to  rise 
before  him,  and  the  cruelty  of  God  to  seem  manifest,  this 
doctrine  of  faith  came  in  to  relieve  his  perplexit3\  He 
saw  in  this  the  solution  of  his  doubt.  If  he  had  been 
attacked  by  idle  terrors,  if  he  fell  into  despair,  if  he  feared 
for  his  salvation,  and  trembled  at  God's  justice,  it  was 
because  he  did  not  believe ;  in  want  of  faith,  he  saw  the 
source  of  all  his  misery.  But  in  the  light  of  faith  the  justice 
of  God  seemed  a  different  thing,  not  part  of  vindictive 
wrath,  but  part  of  abounding  mercy.  It  was  glorious  to 
think  upon  it.     Joy  came  again  to  the  poor  monk's  soul. 


250  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

The  nightly  visions  of  demons  ceased.  He  stood  gladly 
at  the  altar.  He  could  now  show  to  sinners  the  way  of 
salvation.  God  no  longer  seemed  to  him  a  great  tyrant, 
damning  the  world  for  its  hereditary  curse  and  its  in- 
numerable transgressions.  He  no  longer  felt  his  soul 
abhorring  the  Ruler  of  the  Universe.  The  words  of  Jesus 
came  to  comfort  him.  "  Believe  and  thou  shalt  be  saved." 
These  seemed  to  him  to  make  repentance  reasonable. 
We  shall  see  hereafter  how  Luther  drew  out  this  doctrine 
and  how  it  differed  from  the  Catholic  doctrine.  But  even 
in  this  earl}'  stage  of  his  history  he  had  come  to  look  upon 
it  as  the  central  power  of  the  creed.  He  had  already 
gone  back  from  the  later  fathers  to  Augustine,  and  he 
could  see  no  way  of  escape  for  the  sinner  through  works, 
whether  of  ritual  or  of  righteousness,  no  salvation  except 
by  faith  in  Christ,  before  he  departed  on  his  mission  to 
Rome. 

This  visit  to  Rome  was  a  most  weighty  event  for  his 
future  career.  It  revealed  to  him  a  new  feature  of  the 
ecclesiastical  state.  Rome  and  its  sanctity  had  long  been 
in  his  dreams  and  he  had  yearned  towards  that  city  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  pilgrim.  Rome  was  venerable  to  him 
by  its  classic  memories,  as  the  home  of  those  sweet  poets 
whose  verses  shared  with  the  Bible  his  attachment.  It 
was  more  venerable  as  the  fountain  head  of  Catholic  doc- 
trine and  faith.  In  Rome,  to  Luther's  dream,  the  joy  and 
desire  of  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  centred.  Occasion 
arose  for  a  messenger  to  be  sent  to  Rome  to  settle  some 
difficulties  between  the  Augustine  order  and  the  Pope. 
Staupitz  made  Luther  his  messenger,  thinking  probably  it 
might  distract  him  from  morbid  thoughts  and  cheer  his 
sombre  musings.  The  journey,  cheerfully  undertaken, 
did  not  turn  out  quite  as  he  expected.  Luther  carried 
across  the  Alps  his  own  idea  of  the  monastic  state,  the 
ancient  idea,  the  ascetic  idea,  the  idea  of  penance,  fasting, 
poverty,  and  earnestness  in  prayer ;  but  he  did  not  see  his 
idea  anywhere  realized.  He  found  good  cheer  and  great 
hospitality,  but  not  much  piety  or  communion  with  God. 
He  heard  all  along  of  the  great  revenues  of  the  convents, 
the  thousands  of  dollars  which  came  from  rents,  from 
masses,  from  boarders  in  the  house,  but  not  of  their  gifts 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  251 

to  the  poor,  or  their  sacrifices  in  the  Saviour's  spirit.  In- 
stead of  the  rude  altars  before  which  it  seemed  becoming 
that  monks  should  kneel,  he  saw  marble,  alabaster,  mosaic, 
jew^elry  and  gold,  all  things  rich  and  rare  on  the  shrines  of 
the  self-denying  brethren.  In  Milan,  the  first  great  Italian 
city  which  he  reached,  he  was  amazed  at  the  luxury  and  tht 
worldliness  all  around  him.  It  was  Paganism  baptised. 
He  had  never  seen  Paganism  before.  The  churches 
seemed  strange.  He  could  not  understand  the  mass  which 
they  chanted,  for  a  miracle  had  commanded  them  to  use 
the  service  of  Ambrose  instead  of  the  missal  of  Gregory, 
which  was  the  regular  Catholic  service.  He  was  shocked, 
too,  at  the  profane  haste  with  which  the  mysteries  of  faith 
were  passed  over,  at  the  indifference  of  the  priests  to  their 
sacred  office. 

His  journey  through  Italy  was  sad  and  disheartening. 
Its  beautiful  skies  were  dark  to  his  sight.  Its  transparent 
air  was  heavy  upon  his  breast.  He  seemed  to  be  travelling 
in  pestilence.  He  could  not  breathe  at  night  the  free  air. 
At  Bolo£:na  he  fell  sick  and  was  onlv  restored  bv  the 
thought  of  the  justice  of  God  through  faith.  When  he 
reached  Rome  there  was  little  to  reassure  him.  He  found 
that  religion  was  the  last  thino:  that  man  cared  for  in  that 
city.  The  warlike  Julius,  intent  upon  expelling  the  French 
from  Italy,  had  no  time  to  attend  to  monkish  troubles. 
The  cardinals  and  bishops  seemed  more  concerned  to 
enrich  themselves  and  to  gather  works  of  art  than  to  re- 
member the  service  of  God.  They  loved  the  Pagan  better 
than  the  Christian  Latin.  Nowhere  could  Luther  find 
any  sympathy  with  his  doctrine  of  faith.  The  priests  and 
the  monks  boasted  of  their  unbelief.  At  the  very  altar 
they  declared  the  bread  and  wine  to  be  that  and  nothing 
more.  A  fortnight  Luther  stayed  at  Rome,  indignant  and 
disofusted  at  all  which  he  saw.  Rome  could  henceforth  no 
longer  be  the  holy  place  of  his  dreams.  Her  dignity  was 
lost  for  him.  All  her  splendor,  luxury  and  wonder,  her 
rulers  on  horseback,  her  kneeling  crowds,  her  vast  cathe- 
drals, could  have  no  charm  for  him.  It  was  hollow  and 
vain.  And  he  went  back  to  Germany  with  a  desolate 
heart,  for  his  idol  had  been  broken.  But  the  visit  was 
not  useless.     "  I   would   not,"   he  says  in  his  table  talk, 


252  MARTIN  LUTIIEB. 

"for  one  hundred  thousand  florins  hav'e  missed  seeins: 
Rome,  for  I  should  always  have  feared  then  that  I  was 
unjust  to  the  Pope  in  what  I  said  about  him." 

Scarcely  had  Luther  returned  to  his  convent  when  he 
received  the  appointment  of  Professor  in  the  new  Univer- 
sity at  Wittemberg.  This  had  been  established  a  few 
years  before  by  Frederic,  Elector  of  Saxony,  a  prince  of 
liberal  culture,  of  sincere  piety,  and  zealous  in  the  work  of 
elevating  the  people.  He  sought  in  the  various  convents 
for  suitable  men  to  fill  his  chairs ;  and  among  others  the 
monk  Luther  was  represented  to  him  as  a  scholar  of  rare 
promise.  The  invitation  was  so  pressing  that  it  seemed 
like  a  command.  Luther  could  not  refuse  it.  He  would 
have  preferred  to  teach  theology,  the  queen  of  the  arts, 
but  the  department  assigned  to  him  was  that  of  philosophy, 
and  the  master  of  philosophy  was  Aristotle,  whom  he 
could  not  love.  His  furniture  for  the  new  charge  was 
extremely  meagre.  He  had  hardly  a  change  of  raiment, 
and  his  library  was  confined  to  a  few  ascetic  books,  some 
Latin  volumes,  a  few  of  Aristotle's  treatises,  a  Concord- 
ance and  two  Bibles. 

To  this  appointment  of  Professor  was  joined  that  of 
Town  Preacher,  so  that  he  had  all  classes  for  his  hearers. 
Luther  was  frightened  at  his  burden  of  duty,  and  would 
fain  have  escaped  it.  "  I  shall  not  live  three  months 
under  it,"  said  he.  "  Very  well,"  said  his  former  master, 
"  if  you  die,  'twill  be  in  the  service  of  the  Lord,  a  noble 
sacrifice!"  His  labors  now  became  intense  and  unremit- 
ting. He  was  constant  in  the  class-room ;  and  yet  his 
sermons  were  regularly  heard  in  the  royal  chapel,  in  the 
college  church  and  in  the  monastery  at  Wittemberg,  to 
which  he  belonged.  These  sermons  were  not  hasty  pro- 
ductions, for  severe  private  study  preceded  his  public 
efforts.  His  sermons  were  in  one  respect  peculiar.  They 
neglected  the  schoolmen  and  the  creeds,  and  went  to  the 
Scriptures  for  their  material  and  their  inspiration.  Though 
he  had  read  the  great  summary  of  Thomas  Aquinas,  the 
Golden  Doctor,  he  preferred  to  draw  from  the  Epistles  of 
Paul.  His  preaching  was  in  all  respects  remarkable.  His 
fine  voice  was  never  more  sonorous  and  impressive  than 
when  it  repeated  the  strong  phrases  of  the  Epistle  to  the 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  253 

Romans.  His  animated  tone,  his  forcible  gesture,  his 
sharp  emphasis,  and  his  evident  sincerity,  all  told  largely 
in  the  public  applause.  His  lectures  were  a  place  of 
general  resort.  Eminent  doctors  pronounced  his  explana- 
tions of  the  Scriptures  to  be  the  most  luminous  of  any 
which  had  been  heard  for  a  century.  The  midnight  oil 
which  he  habitually  burned  was  not  spent  in  vain  ;  but 
from  the  vigils  of  the  student  came  forth  a  light  which 
astonished  the  wisest.  Luther  loved  his  task,  and  bore 
modestly  his  fame,  glad  only  to  open  to  others  the  myste- 
ries of  that  Word  which  was  so  grand  to  his  soul.  In 
these  close  studies  of  his  professorship,  in  these  Biblical 
sermons,  he  was  laying  the  foundations  of  his  power  as  a 
Reformer,  and  preparing  for  his  service  of  controversy, 
his  defence  of  God's  Word  against  the  devices  and  cor- 
ruptions of  men.  Already  his  eminence  was  predicted, 
and  he  was  praised  by  famous  men. 

On  the  sixteenth  of  October,  15 12,  St.  Luke's  day, 
Luther  received  the  de2:ree  of  Doctor  of  Divinitv  before  a 
large  assembly.  The  insignia  of  his  new  honor  were 
offered  by  the  Archdeacon,  now  at  once  his  superior,  his 
admirer  and  his  friend,  but  in  a  few  years  to  become  the 
object  of  his  bitterest  scorn  and  contempt.  Luther  was 
now  twenty-nine  years  old,  in  the  full  vigor  of  his  powers 
and  ready  for  any  service. 

The  immediate  motive  to  the  Reformation  was  the  sale 
of  Indulgences.  These  had  been  sanctioned  bv  manv 
Popes  before  Leo,  and  the  whole  system  of  payments  to 
the  Church  for  sins  committed  was  kindred  with  them. 
For  it  seems  reasonable  that  sins  which  may  be  released 
for  a  consideration  in  money  should  be  released  in  ad- 
vance as  much  as  in  the  past.  If  the  offence  committed 
has  its  price,  there  is  no  reason  why  future  offences  should 
not  be  so  anticipated.  But  Leo  carried  the  system  farther 
than  previous  Popes.  His  luxurious  schemes  of  life,  his 
gigantic  literary  and  artistic  plans,  required  more  revenue 
than  the  ordinary  contributions  of  the  Christian  world. 
St.  Peter's  Church  was  yet  to  be  finished,  and  there  was 
no  limit  there  to  lavish  expense  if  the  design  of  the  archi- 
tect were  carried  out.  It  happened,  too,  at  this  time  that 
the  Archbishop  of  Magdeburg  and  Mayence,   Albert,  in 


254  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

whose  diocese  Luther  lived,  was  a  man  of  luxurious  life 
and  great  needs,  wanting  more  than  all  his  revenues  to 
meet  his  expenses,  and  yet  owing  vast  sums  to  Rome  as 
the  arrears  of  unpaid  tithes.  The  indulgences  proclaimed 
by  the  Pope,  then,  would  meet  his  sanction  as  a  means  of 
relieving  himself  of  an  inconvenient  demand.  If  Luther's 
story  may  be  trusted,  Albert  and  flie  Pope  were  partners 
in  the  scheme  and  shared  alike  in  its  profits. 

Luther  had  heard  before  with  amazement  and  ansfer 
that  such  abomination  v/as  allowed.  But  he  was  a  Catholic 
still,  and  he  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  interfere  in  what 
he  had  no  personal  share.  But  early  in  the  summer  of 
15 17,  he  heard  that  the  accursed  thing  had  come  nigh  to 
him,  and  that  in  some  of  the  towns  around  Wittemberg  a 
monk,  by  name  John  Tetzel,  was  trafficking  in  sins  and 
souls  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Church.  He  had  known 
the  character  and  spirit  of  this  man,  his  shameless  licen- 
tiousness, his  bold  profanity,  his  irreverent  trifling  with 
sacred  mysteries,  his  insolent  dictation  and  abuse  of  those 
who  stood  in  his  way.  From  such  a  man,  however  eloquent 
and  ingenious,  no  good  could  be  expected.  It  seemed  fit 
that  he  should  be  selected  for  a  base  and  blasphemous 
service.  His  expressions  were  repeated  to  Luther ;  the 
absurd  and  noisy  pomp  with  which  he  entered  the  towns 
with  a  crier  before  him  announcing  that  God  had  come, 
with  long  and  showy  processions  of  priests,  and  monks, 
and  nuns,  of  magistrates  and  scholars,  with  flaunting  ban- 
ners, and  lighted  candles,  and  the  red  cross,  and  the 
pontifical  bull  on  its  cushion,  profaning  by  showy  mockery 
the  works  of  Divine  Grace  in  the  pardon  of  sinners.  The 
preacher  of  righteousness  could  not  be  silent  when  such 
abuse  was  acted.  He  had  disciples  to  warn  and  he  had  a 
flock  to  protect.  He  preached  therefore  at  Wittemberg, 
warning  his  hearers  not  to  deceive  themselves  by  any  such 
follies,  and  not  to  touch  the  pledges  of  unlawful  pardon. 
He  wrote  in  remonstrance  to  the  bishop  of  his  diocese, 
and  to  Archbishop  Albert,  beseeching  them  to  heed  and 
stop  this  scandal  to  all  piety.  His  words  were  terse  and 
clear,  and  spoke  a  truth  not  to  be  mistaken.  No  answer 
came  from  the  Archbishop,  since  it  was  not  likely  that  a 
partner  in  the  trafBc  would  try  to  prevent  it. 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  255 

Luther  began  to  see  that  the  case  was  pressing.  The 
bearer  of  Indulgences  was  now  at  Juterboch,  eight  miles 
from  Wittemberg,  and  the  people  flocked  out  to  meet  him 
and  to  purchase  his  wares.  The  confessionals  at  Wittem- 
bers:  were  deserted.  The  excitement  for  Tetzel  and  his 
traffic  increased.  It  was  a  critical  time,  Luther  took 
counsel  of  God,  retired  to  his  cell,  and  spent  many  days 
there  in  preparing  a  sermon  which  should  put  a  stop  to  the 
affair.  On  the  appointed  day  the  church  was  crowded.  No 
one  could  discover  from  the  earnestness  with  which  Luther 
joined  in  the  prayers  and  chanting  that  he  had  such  daring 
words  to  speak.  His  devotion  to  Catholic  faith  never  was 
more  evident  than  when  he  was  ready  to  throw  out 
defiance  to  Catholic  practice. 

We  cannot  here  give  even  an  abstract  of  the  positions 
of  this  striking  sermon,  which  really  contains  the  germs 
of  all  Luther's  heresies.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  it  gave 
the  lie  to  all  the  pretensions  of  Tetzel,  declared  that  sin 
could  only  be  pardoned  by  God,  and  his  free  grace,  that 
nowhere  in  the  word  of  God  was  it  said  that  a  man  could 
buy  expiation  for  the  wrong  of  his  life  or  the  evil  in  his 
soul,  that  it  was  the  first  Christian  work  to  show  mercy,  to 
help  the  poor,  to  give  to  the  sick,  and  suffering,  and  after- 
wards, if  there  were  a  surplus  remaining,  to  give  to  the 
buildino^  of  churches. 

The  boldness  of  this  sermon  frightened  his  fellow-monks. 
They  feared  the  result  of  such  a  manifesto.  One  of  them, 
shaking  his  head,  said  to  Luther,  "  Ah !  Doctor,  you  have 
been  very  rash  to-day.  This  may  be  a  bad  affair  for  our 
order.  The  Dominicans  are  laus^hino:  at  us  alreadv." 
"What  matter,  good  father,"  replied  Luther.  "If  this 
does  not  come  from  God,  it  will  fall ;  if  it  comes  from  his 
holy  word  it  will  stand;"  repeating  thus  the  sentiment  of 
Huss,  and  Wickliffe,  and  Gamaliel,  the  sentiment  of  all 
who  have  learned  the  world's  wisdom  or  are  moved  by  the 
prophet's  fire. 

This  famous  sermon  of  Luther  soon  came  to  the  ears  of 
Tetzel.  It  aroused  all  his  wrath.  He  thought  to  crush 
the  presumptuous  preacher  by  words  of  authority.  He 
stormed,  he  insulted,  he  threatened.  He  took  one  night 
to  prepare   a   list  of  twenty  propositions  which   were  to 


256  MABTIN  LUTHER, 

annihilate  the  Wittemberg  doctor.  He  held  him  up  to 
ridicule,  he  hinted  at  harder  pains.  "The  Inquisition," 
said  Tetzel,  "shall  be  the  judge  of  any  who  dare  to  deny 
what  the  Pope  has  ordered."  The  trial  of  fire  and  water 
he  offered  to  Luther  in  taunting  phrase.  His  taunts  were 
flung  back  by  satire.  "Your  cries  seem  to  me,"  said 
Luther,  "  but  empty  braying.  In  stead  of  water  I  com- 
mend to  you  the  juice  of  the  vine,  and  in  place  of  fire 
inhale,  my  friend,  the  odor  of  a  good  roast  goose,  and  tell 
all  your  inquisitors,  all  your  eaters  of  hot  iron  and  splitters 
of  rocks,  that  I,  Martin  Luther,  live  at  Wittemberg,  and 
that  they  will  find  at  my  house  an  open  door,  a  table 
spread,  good  cheer,  and  a  hearty  welcome." 

But  the  time  was  come  for  a  greater  effort.  The  affair 
could  no  longer  be  one  of  mere  self-denial.  It  was  time 
to  arouse  the  scholars  and  the  dignitaries  of  the  Church 
out  of  their  indifference.  The  great  Festival  of  All 
Saints,  celebrated  in  Germany  with  peculiar  zeal,  was 
close  at  hand.  Luther  took  no  human  counsel.  Alone  he 
ventured  to  brave  the  storm.  He  drew  up  ninety-five 
theses.  They  were  clear,  vigorous,  and  deliberately 
written  ;  he  would  stand  by  them  as  his  word.  Alone,  in 
the  evening,  he  went  out  to  the  Church  ;  with  his  own 
hand  he  nailed  to  the  door  these  theses.  (William  III,  of 
Prussia,  caused  bronze  doors  to  be  erected  in  place  of  the 
original  wooden  ones  on  which  the  theses  were  nailed  by 
Luther,  and  the  theses  were  cast  in  raised  letters  upon  the 
doors.)  That  act  made  the  thirty-first  day  of  October, 
15 17,  memorable  in  the  history  of  the  world.  There 
began  a  new  Christian  cycle.  The  Reformation  dates 
from  that  All  Saints  Day. 

On  the  morning  of  All  Saint's  Day,  the  crowds  as  usual 
thronged  to  the  Church  at  Wittemberg  to  hear  and  join  in 
the  solemn  mass  of  the  great  festival.  But  a  strange  in- 
scription upon  the  door  arrested  their  notice.  It  gave  a 
new  turn  to  the  thought  of  the  people.  It  offered  a  new 
feature  in  the  exercises  of  the  day.  They  read  in  the 
long  list  of  propositions,  which  rang  in  their  nervous  dia- 
lect like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  a  defiance  to  that  man 
who  came  there  in  the  name  of  the  Pope  to  make  merchan- 
dise of  souls.     They  saw  it  announced  there  that  Martin 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  257 

Luther  stood  ready  that  day  publicly  to  maintain  that  the 
Pope  had  and  could  have  no  power  to  sell  the  pardon  of 
sins,  or  to  pardon  any  sins,  but  on  the  Scriptural  condi- 
tion of  repentance  ;  that  it  was  a  scandal  and  a  lie  to  affirm 
of  the  Holy  Father  that  he  would  thus  set  at  naught  the 
word  of  God  ;.that  charity  and  faith,  not  the  payment  of 
money,  were  the  means  of  salvation.  The  thins:  was  im- 
mediately  noised  abroad,  and  before  the  hour  of  service 
had  come,  priests,  monks,  scholars,  artisans,  the  noble  and 
the  poor,  were  all  talking  about  the  theses.  At  the  ap- 
pointed hour  thousands  were  waiting  in  the  Church,  but 
Tetzel  was  not  there,  and  his  friends  were  silent.  No  one 
appeared  to  attack  the  novel  doctrine.  And  the  sun  that 
day  went  down  upon  a  triumph,  the  consequences  of  which 
no  thought  of  ours  can  measure.  The  thousands  of  pil- 
grims that  had  come  together  dispersed  over  Saxony  again 
to  their  homes.  But  they  carried  with  them  the  record 
of  the  day's  achievement.  Instead  of  the  certificate  of 
pardoned  sin,  they  bore  back  in  their  memories,  if  not  in 
their  hands,  the  w'ords  which  they  had  read.  No  tidings 
had  ever  spread  more  rapidly.  In  two  weeks  all  Germany 
had  heard  of  them  ;  and  before  the  month  had  passed, 
they  were  read  at  Rome.  I'hey  were  discussed  in  priestly 
conclaves,  in  colleges,  and  in  workshops.  They  were 
translated  into  foreign  tongues.  The  great  classic  scholars 
stopped  to  heed  them,  and  the  oppressed  heart  of  more 
than  one  nation  beat  high  with  hope.  They  penetrated 
even  to  Spain,  the  dark  and  bloody  ground  of  religion, 
and  the  recent  hecatombs  of  victims  could  not  prevent 
the  Andalusians  from  rejoicing  in  this  unlooked-for  testi- 
mony. It  was  not  the  intrinsic  importance  of  these  theses, 
but  the  prophecy  of  greater  things,  which  men  felt  that 
they  contained.  The  world  saw  that  they  were  the  har- 
binger of  a  new  element  in  human  affairs,  of  a  new  day 
in  religion.  From  all  sides  came  in  testimonies  to  Luther 
that  his  act  had  not  been  fruitless  or  unheeded.  Such 
men  as  Reuchlin  and  Erasmus  were  inspired  by  it  with 
new  hope  ;  and  many  a  young  student  saw  the  reality  here 
of  his  recent  vision,  and  welcomed  the  words  of  the  Saxon 
teacher  as  an  assurance  that  the  second  coming  of  Christ  so 

17 


258  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

long  delayed  was  now  at  hand.     Even  Pope  Leo  was  more 
struck  by  the  genius  of  Luther  than  enraged  at  his  boldness. 

The  next  critical  passage  in  Luther's  life  was  his  ap- 
pearance before  the  legate  of  the  Pope  at  the  Augsburg 
Diet  in  October,  15 18.  We  have  no  time  here  to  detail 
the  events  which  led  to  this  citation.  We  must  pass  over 
that  striking  letter  to  Leo,  the  most  blessed  Father,  where 
Luther  humbles  himself  before  the  rule  of  the  Pope,  yet 
holds  to  and  repeats  his  opinions  ;  the  discussion  between 
the  Emperor  and  the  Elector  as  to  the  best  place  for  a 
hearing ;  the  defeat  of  the  manoeuvres  to  draw  him  to 
Rome,  which  would  have  been  sure  destruction  ;  the  in- 
dignation with  which  the  friends  of  Luther  regarded  the 
scheme  to  entrap  him.  We  must  omit  here,  too,  that  most 
important  friendship  which  Luther  formed  at  this  time 
with  Melancthon,  an  event  of  moment  for  his  whole  sub- 
sequent career. 

The  diet  of  Augsburg  was  called  by  Maximilian  for 
political  ends,  to  settle  the  disputed  questions  of  sover- 
eignty, and  especially  to  take  measures  against  the  invasion 
of  the  Turks.  It  seemed  fit  to  Leo  to  make  this  imposing 
assembly,  where  the  princes  and  nobles  of  Germany  were 
met,  the  scene  of  trial  for  a  fanatical  monk,  who  had  dared 
to  oppose  an  ordinance  of  the  Church.  By  a  brief  dated 
August  twenty-third,  Luther  was  summoned  to  appear  at 
the  Diet  within  sixty  days  to  answer  to  the  charges  of 
heresy,  and  to  retract  his  scandalous  attacks  upon  the 
Church.  The  business  was  entrusted  to  a  shrewd,  accom- 
plished and  famous  doctor  of  the  Church,  the  Cardinal  De 
Vio,  usually  called  Caietan,  from  the  town  where  he  was 
born.  This  man  was  noted  for  a  moral  purity  unusual  in 
his  time  and  office,  a  burning  zeal  for  the  interest  of  the 
Church  and  the  monastic  order,  and  a  truly  Italian  tact 
in  diplomacy.  He  was  versed  in  the  lore  of  the  schools, 
and  proud  in  the  dignity  of  his  station, —  the  man,  it  was 
thought,  at  once  fitted  to  refute,  convince,  seduce,  per- 
suade and  overawe  a  mind  like  that  of  Luther.  He  entered 
on  the  mission  with  confidence  and  alacrity;  success 
seemed  sure;  no  sane  man  could  dream  that  a  Saxon  pro- 
fessor would  hold  out  against  a  cardinal  legate,  armed  as 
he  was  with  power  to  crush  the  heretic. 


MABTIN  LUTHER.  259 

It  was  with  great  fear  that  the  friends  of  Luther  saw 
him  set  out  for  Augsburg  in  obedience  to  the  mandate.  It 
seemed  to  them  a  certain  renewal  of  the  tragedy  of  Con- 
stance. They  could  not  believe  that  the  ^afe  conduct 
which  he  gained  from  the  Emperor  would  be  more  re- 
spected than  that  of  Sigismund  had  been.  But  Luther 
trusted  in  the  justice  of  his  cause.  He  wanted  no  friends 
to  share  his  danger.  His  journey  was  made  mostly  on 
foot,  and  with  no  conveniences  for  travel.  Yet  he  found 
that  the  people  all  along  had  heard  of  him  and  were 
waiting  to  welcome  him.  At  Augsburg  the  various  con- 
vents vied  with  each  other  for  the  honor  of  giving  him 
hospitality.  He  was  summoned  as  a  heretic,  but  received 
as  an  apostle.  Even  the  legate  felt  the  need  of  treating 
such  a  famous  man  with  respect,  and  made  an  effort  to 
conciliate  Luther  in  advance  of  the  public  hearing.  One 
of  the  first  persons  who  waited  upon  Luther  after  his  ar- 
rival was  the  Urban  of  Sena  Longa,  a  courtier  of  the 
Cardinal's,  subtle,  insinuating,  and  thoroughly  master  of 
Italian  dissimulation.  This  man  plied  Luther  with  all 
sorts  of  arguments,  and  used  all  sorts  of  evasions  to  per- 
suade the  doctor  into  submission,  and  prepare  him  for  the 
serious  interview.  But  he  found  that  the  honest  soul  of 
the  Reformer  was  proof  against  his  wiles.  Luther  under- 
stood it  all,  and  these  attempts  to  beguile  him  only  gave 
him  more  strength  in  the  cause  he  had  espoused.  Though 
friends  and  foes,  the  monks  and  the  people  were  so  busy 
in  discussing  his  probable  fate,  he  awaited  calmly  the  day 
of  hearing,  determined  in  his  mind  how  to  act. 

On  Tuesday,  October  nth,  Luther  found  himself  for 
the  first  time  confronted  in  argument  with  a  high  dignitary 
of  the  Church.  The  reverence  which  he  made  when  the 
interview  began  was  not  a  sign  of  what  the  word  was  to- 
be.  The  legate  saw,  to  his  amazement,  that  the  criminal 
whom  he  had  summoned  was  disposed  to  contest  his  au- 
thority. His  mild  request  to  Luther  to  retract,  and  to 
pledge  himself  to  good  behavior  was  strangely  met  by  a 
demand  that  the  errors  in  doctrine  should  be  pointed  out. 
His  statement  that  the  Pope  had  sanctioned  the  indul- 
gences was  met  by  an  assertion  that  the  Pope  had  no  right 
to  sanction  them.     Caietan  learned  very  soon  that  he  had 


26o  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

a  hard  subject  to  deal  with,  one  who  was  as  little  to  be 
dazzled  by  the  show  of  power,  as  he  was  to  be  silenced  by- 
threats  and  commands,  one  who  could  baffle  his  ingenuity 
by  words  of  fe*arless  honesty.  He  had  not  met  anywhere  a 
man  of  Luther's  stamp  and  there  was  no  rule  which  he  knew 
for  getting  hold  of  such  a  mind.  His  diplomacy  was  at 
fault.  Every  snare  which  he»set  was  avoided,  and  he  was 
mortified  that  the  whole  day  should  pass  in  fruitless  discus- 
sion with  no  progress  made  in  the  humiliation  of  his  an- 
tagonist beyond  the  first  act  of  respect.  Two  more  days 
were  spent  in  the  business,  all  the  time  with  the  affair 
growing  worse  and  worse.  The  wily  Cardinal  was  flung 
off  his  guard.  His  passions  got  the  better  of  his  pru- 
dence. He  lowered  his  dignity  by  ridiculing  his  foe,  and 
turned  the  laughter  upon  himself  by  his  fierce  loquacity. 
One  thing  he  wanted,  and  that  was  just  what  he  could  not 
get,  Luther's  consent  to  retract.  The  more  he  stormed 
and  threatened,  the  calmer  Luther  stood  before  him.  He 
could  not  be  betraved  into  anv  insult.  All  that  Luther 
would  say  was,  "  I  will  retract  when  you  show  me  what  I 
have  said  contrary  to  the  Gospel  of  Christ.  Answer  my 
arguments  and  I  will  obey  your  commandment." 

The  violence  of  the  legate  aided  the  cause  of  Luther. 
It  was  good  for  him  that  the  Pope's  emissary  refused  to 
hear.  It  gave  him  an  excuse  for  departing.  There  was 
danger  in  the  Cardinal's  threats,  and  it  was  not  safe  to  try 
his  invitation  too  far.  Four  days  he  waited  at  Augsburg 
after  the  last  interview,  to  see  if  the  legate  would  relent 
and  admit  him  again  to  his  presence.  He  even  added  a 
modest  letter,  in  which  he  asked  pardon  for  any  improper 
haste  or  petulance,  and  confessed  his  readiness  to  listen 
to  the  suggestions  of  the  Holy  Father.  But  the  words  "I 
retract,"  did  not  escape  him.  Without  making  his  inten- 
tion known,  one  morning  before  daybreak,  he  quietly  rode 
away  and  left  his  antagonist  with  the  Italian  courtiers  to 
digest  the  matter  as  well  as  they  could. 

In  the  month  of  June,  1520,  two  famous  documents  ap- 
peared. The  one  was  an  address  to  the  German  nobility 
from  the  hand  of  Luther  proving  that  the  Pope  was  the 
predicted  Man  of  Sin  and  worthy  of  execration.  Four 
thousand  copies  of  this  work  were  sold  in  a  few  weeks  and 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  261 

distributed  throughout  Germany.  It  was  an  appeal  from 
the  Pope  to  the  nation,  to  defend  their  ancient  rights,  to 
support  the  cause  of  rehgion,  of  letters,  of  human  free- 
dom, and  Christian  purity.  It  showed  the  Pope  to  be  a 
thief,  a  tyrant  and  a  traitor  to  God,  living  on  the  sweat  of 
the  poor  and  the  infamy  of  the  base,  the  head  of  a  vast 
system  of  iniquity.  "  Let  us  blow  down  these  walls  of 
paper  and  straw  which  the  Romans  have  built  around 
them,  and  lift  up  the  rods  which  punish  by  bringing  the 
wiles  of  the  devil  to  the  light  of  day."  He  declares 
resistance  to  be  the  only  remedy  against  the  abuses  of 
Rome.  The  yoke  of  Rome  must  be  thrown  off,  its  power 
defied,  the  tiara  dashed  from  the  head  of  St.  Peter's  im- 
pious successor.  The  Pope  must  be  relieved  of  his  sover- 
eignty. The  Emperor  should  give  him  a  prayer-book  and  a 
Bible  that  he  may  leave  kings  to  govern,  and  betake  him- 
self to  preaching  and  prayer.  In  a  long  strain  of  indig- 
nant protest  he  goes  over  the  abuses  with  which  Rome 
has  loaded  the  Church,  and  calls  upon  the  kings  and  the 
nobles,  the  doctors,  the  students,  and  the  people  to  unite 
themselves  against  their  common  oppressor.  Such  bold 
truth  had  never  been  spoken  since  a  Reformer  preached 
the  new  kingdom  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem.  It  re- 
sounded through  the  land,  and  rang  like  the  blare  of  a 
thousand  trumpets. 

Simultaneous  with  the  appearance  of  this  address,  in 
solemn  conclave  at  Rome,  the  Cardinals  voted  to  declare 
to  the  world  the  famous  bull  which  separated  Martin 
Luther  from  the  communion  of  the  faithful  and  declared 
him  a  heretic,  infamous  and  accursed.  Forty-one  proposi- 
tions were  condemned.  It  was  ordered  that  the  Reformer 
shall  burn  all  the  books  in  which  these  propositions  may 
be  contained.  Sixty  days  were  given  him  from  the  time 
of  the  publication  of  the  bull  to  retract,  or  to  come  to 
Rome  and  confess  his  sins.  Otherwise,  he  and  all  his 
friends  were  to  be  treated  as  heretics,  according  to  the 
ancient  method.  In  the  autumn  of  the  year,  Eck,  bearing 
this  fearful  bull,  appeared  in  Germany.  It  was  proclaimed 
among  the  people ;  some  laughed,  but  many  feared.  Here 
and  there  men  began  to  rid  themselves  by  fire  of  the 
works  of  Luther.     He  met  at  first  the  bull  by  irony  and 


262  MARTIN  LUTHER. 


abuse.  He  treated  it  as  a  contemptible  mockery  of  the 
popular  will.  But  soon  he  saw  that  some  more  daring 
course  must  be  taken.  Three  years  before  he  had  cen- 
sured the  rashness  of  the  Wittembero^  students  in  burnins: 
the  theses  of  Tetzel.  Now  he  invited  the  officers  and 
students  to  witness  a  more  imposing  auto  da  fe.  On  the 
tenth  day  of  December  at  nine  o'clock  a.  m.,  a  great 
crowd  were  gathered  at  the  east  gate  of  the  city,  around 
the  cross  close  to  which  a  funeral  pile  of  faggots  had  been 
raised.  In  solemn  march  Luther  led  the  procession  till 
they  reached  the  spot.  The  fire  was  put  to  the  pile. 
Luther  then  took  the  laws  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  the 
Decretals,  the  Clementines,  the  Extravagants,  and  the 
Canon  law,  which  ages  had  been  collecting  in  the  Church, 
with  the  writings  of  Eck  and  Emser,  and  flung  them  on 
the  fire.  When  these  were  burned  he  threw  on  the  Papal 
Bull,  exclaiming,  "  Because  thou  has  troubled  and  put  to 
shame  the  holy  one  of  the  Lord,  so  be  thou  troubled  and 
consumed  by  the  eternal  fire  of  hell."  A  loud  cheer  ended 
the  performance  and  they  returned  to  town  without  out- 
break or  confusion. 

On  the  second  day  of  April,  152 1,  Luther  set  out  on  his 
journey  to  Worms  in  obedience  to  the  Imperial  mandate, 
with  the  safe-conduct  guaranteeing  him  an  unmolested 
passage  and  a  sure  return.  His  friends  saw  him  depart 
with  heavy  hearts,  and  those  who  went  with  him  seemed 
almost  to  be  going  to  martyrdom.  Melancholy  forebodings 
min2:led  with  the  welcomes  which  s^reeted  him  all  along 
the  way.  The  pride  which  Germany  felt  in  the  fame  of 
her  hero  was  troubled  by  the  prospect  of  his  fate.  Ob- 
stacles all  along  were  thrown  in  his  way.  Friends  dis- 
suaded him,  enemies  jeered  at  him.  But  his  heart  was 
fixed.  "I  will  obey  the  Emperor's  order,"  was  his  answ^er 
to  all  their  words.  "Should  they  light  a  fire  which  should 
blaze  as  high  as  heaven  and  reach  from  Wittemberg  to 
Worms,  at  Worms  I  will  still  appear  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord  and  overthrow  the  monster.  I  will  go  up  to  Worms 
even  if  there  were  as  manv  devils  there  as  there  are  tiles 
on  the  roofs  of  the  houses."  His  journey  lasted  fourteen 
days.  On  the  sixteenth  he  entered  the  city  more  like  a 
warrior  returning  from   battle   than   a  criminal  going  to 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  263 

judgment.  The  Imperial  herald  went  before  him.  A 
bociy-guard  of  Saxon  nobles  were  around  him.  The 
thousand  students  who  had  gathered  to  the  great  session 
welcomed  him  with  their  greetings,  and  all  the  streets  were 
filled  with  a  dense  throng  of  people  anxious  10  behold  the 
man  of  the  age.  -As  Luther  stepped  from  his  carriage 
and  saw  this  great,  splendid  crowd  swelling  before  him  in 
its  ocean  waves,  his  heart  was  lifted  in  the  spirit  of 
prophecy,  and  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "God  will  be  upon  my 
side."  Lons:  after  he  had  entered  there,  the  crowds  waited 
to  see  his  face,  to  hear  his  voice,  or  to  receive  his  bene- 
diction. 

The  next  day,  at  four  p.  M.,  was  appointed  for  the  hear- 
ing. As  Luther  went  slowly  along  to  the  hall  of  meeting, 
he  was  at  once  cheered  and  awed  by  the  sight  before  his 
eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  German  people  were 
poured  into  this  one  city.  Every  place  where  any  one 
could  see  him  was  occupied,  doors,  windows,  roofs,  the 
spires  of  churches  ;  everywhere  he  saw  anxious  eyes 
turned  upon  him.  Words  of  encouragement  and  of  warn- 
ing fell  upon  his  ear,  among  them  the  words  of  Jesus, 
"  Fear  not  those,"  etc.  "  When  you  stand  before  lyings," 
etc.  He  saw  that  he  was  safe  in  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
though  the  powers  of  the  land  might  condemn  him.  With 
great  effort  he  reached  at  last  the  hall,  and  came  into  the 
august  presence  of  the  assembled  empire.  A  stout  heart 
might  have  quailed  in  that  presence,  not  so  much  from  its 
numbers  as  from  the  exalted  rank  of  its  members.  An 
Emperor,  heir  to  the  crown  of  the  Caesars,  an  Archduke, 
six  electors,  the  founders  of  dynasties,  twenty-four  dukes, 
eight  counts,  thirty  archbishops  and  prelates,  seven  ambas- 
sadors from  the  States  of  Europe,  and  behind  these  a 
crowd  of  lesser  nobles.  It  was  before  such  an  audience 
that  Luther  stood  and  listened  to  the  word  which  sum- 
moned him  to  humble  himself  and  to  retract  his  teaching. 
Two  questions  were  asked  him.  "  Are  these  books  (a 
goodly  pile  which  lay  there)  yours  ?  "  Next,  "  Will  you 
declare  that  you  condemn  them  and  renounce  their  con- 
tents as  heresy  ?  "  The  books  are  mine,  answered  Luther, 
when  their  titles  were  read.  To  your  other  question  I 
must  ask  a  short  space  to  frame  my  answer  that  I  may  not 


264  MARTIN  LUTIlEll 


endanger  my  soul  nor  offend  God's  word.  His  enemies 
rejoiced  in  this  symptom  of  weakness."  "This  man  will 
not  make  a  heretic  of  me,"  said  the  Emperor.  One  day 
was  granted  to  Luther  to  prepare  his  answer.  It  was 
spent  by  the  Reformer  not  in  the  examination  of  his  works 
to  see  how  much  he  might  spare  from  their  contents,  but 
in  earnest  prayer  that  God  would  give  him  strength. 

It  was  late  the  next  day  before  they  would  give  him 
audience.  Two  hours  long  he  waited  in  the  antechamber, 
with  hundreds  gazing  there  upon  him.  When  at  last,  as 
the  day  was  darkening,  he  stood  before  the  Diet  to  answer 
again,  all  of  them  could  see  that  the  courage  of  the  mar- 
tyrs was  in  his  soul.  His  speech  was  modest,  simple  and 
earnest.  First  in  his  native  German  and  then  in  Latin,  he 
repeated  it.  It  asked  for  a  refutation  of  his  errors.  It 
appealed  to  the  Bible  as  arbiter  and  God  as  judge.  In 
respectful  terms  it  reiterated  the  obnoxious  heresy  that 
every  man  was  a  freeman  in  Christ.  It  spoke  a  lofty 
faith  in  the  truth,  and  implored  the  princes  to  act  now  as 
the  servants  of  God.  "  Why  do  you  bring  us  here  ques- 
tions which  the  Church  has  long  since  decided,"  said  the 
Imperial  orator.  "  Answer  yes  or  no,  will  you  retract .''  " 
"Since,  then,"  said  Luther,  "your  most  serene  majesty 
and  the  princes  require  a  simple  answer,  I  will  give  it 
thus  :  Unless  I  shall  be  convinced  by  proofs  from  Scripture 
or  by  evident  reason  (for  I  believe  not  in  erring  Popes 
and  Councils),  I  cannot  choose  but  adhere  to  the  word 
of  God  which  has  possession  of  my  conscience,  nor  can  I 
possibly,  nor  will  I  ever,  make  any  recantation,  since  it  is 
neither  safe  nor  honest  to  act  contrary  to  conscience. 
Here  I  take  my  stand ;  I  cannot  do  otherwise.  God  help 
me  !  Amen !  "  The  question  was  repeated  then,  with  a 
similar  answer.  They  saw  it  was  vain  to  tempt  this  man. 
He  had  appealed  to  a  higher  tribunal  than  theirs,  to  the 
voice  of  God  in  the  human  soul,  and  it  might  seem  to 
those  men  of  earthly  might  and  renown  that  it  was  the 
great  voice  of  God  speaking  out  to  them  through  the  dim 
light  of  that  still  hall.  The  Emperor  was  awed  in  such  a 
presence. 

I  need  go  no  farther  in  the  narrative,  though  it  were 
interesting  to   speak  of  the  visits  which  Luther  received 


MARTIN  LUTUEB.  26 


D 


from  the  nobles,  the  bishops,  and  the  scholars  while  he 
stayed  in  the  city,  with  what  arguments  they  plied  him, 
what  lures  they  spread  for  him,  what  compliments  and 
what  insults  he  had  to  encounter.  Nor  need  we  stay  to 
follow  back  his  progress  homeward  and  observe  the  joy 
that  greeted  him,  and  the  gratitude  which  the  voices  of 
the  people  spoke  for  his  strange  preservation.  I  have 
finished  the  sketch  of  Luther's  rebellion  and  reached  its 
climax.  It  has  now  become  an  appeal  from  all  human 
authority  to  the  truth  and  word  of  God,  an  assertion  of 
the  rights  of  conscience,  a  new  Gospel  of  freedom.  The 
scholar  of  Wittemberg  has  become  to  our  view  the  prophet 
of  the  world.  The  truth  has  been  wrested  by  his  arm 
from  all  its  trammels.  He  stands  before  us  now  separate 
from  the  Church,  and  relying  only  on  the  invisible  strength 
of  God.  Around  him  we  seem  to  see  gathering  the  hosts 
of  heaven,  the  company  of  saints  and  prophets,  to  stand 
over  against  the  hosts  of  the  Church  on  earth.  It  recalls 
for  us  the  old  story  of  Elijah  and  the  priests  of  Baal. 

But  it  is  time  to  turn  from  this  public  work  of  the  great 
Reformer  to  his  more  private  sphere  of  duty,  and  see 
something  of  the  spirit  and  character  of  the  man.  Just 
one  month  after  the  death  of  Frederic  the  Elector,  Luther 
married  Catherine  of  Bora,  a  nun  escaped  from  a  Misnian 
convent.  Such  an  act  gave  great  scandal  to  his  friends, 
both  in  the  court,  and  in  the  schools.  It  was  a  reproach 
upon  the  lofty  virtue  and  self-denial  which  heretofore  tliey 
had  boasted  of  their  master,  and  Luther  was  called  to 
defend  for  himself  what  was  right  and  proper  on  the 
principles  which  he  laid  down.  But  it  was  a  fortunate 
step  for  his  peace  of  mind.  The  partner  whom  he  chose 
was  beautiful  alike  in  person  and  in  soul,  of  a  sweet, 
gentle,  patient  nature,  fit  to  lighten  his  perplexing  labors, 
and  to  console  him  in  his  sorrows.  She  had  mind  enough 
to  appreciate,  but  not  to  differ  from  her  husband,  and  the 
heart  to  admire  him  without  the  will  to  contend  with  him. 
She  gave  him  the  instance  and  model  of  what  an  obedient 
and  loving  wife  should  be.  Though  he  might  sometimes 
wish  that  she  had  a  larger  comprehension  of  the  doctrines 
of  faith  and  a  deeper  experience  of  spiritual  struggle,  still 
it  was  beautiful  to  turn  from  the  devil  who  tempted  him 


266  MABTIN  LUTHER. 

so  sorely  to  her  serene  and  tranquil  soul.  She  restored 
him  to  his  simple  humanity,  and  engaged  the  man  who 
bore  on  his  heart  the  creeds  of  nations  and  the  interests 
of  a  future  Zion,  in  the  common  cares  of  a  humble 
household.  She  gave  him  sympathy  with  the  details  of 
an  earthly  life,  and  yet  suggested  to  him  visions  of  higher 
relations.  Luther's  marriage  helped  him  at  once  to  bear 
his  poverty  and  to  see  how  Christ  was  mystically  joined 
to  the  bride  of  the  Apocalypse.  He  found  no  loss  in 
going  back  from  his  study-chamber  to  the  company  of  his 
little  household.  The  new  experience  of  the  affections 
interpreted  for  him  the  solemn  oracles  of  God's  word. 

And  all  a  father's  tenderness  was  called  out  to  the 
children  who  grew  and  frolicked  in  his  home.  He  learned 
then  what  Jesus  meant  when  he  blessed  the  little  ones. 
They  showed  him  the  image  of  freedom,  joy  and  purity. 
He  seemed  to  be  nearer  heaven  when  they  were  playing 
around  him.  Their  careless  confidence  was  a  sis:n  of 
what  the  Christian's  faith  towards  God  should  be  ;  he  dis- 
covered spontaneously  revealed  in  their  souls  all  for  which 
with  such  pains  and  doubt  he  was  striving.  Nowhere  is 
his  story  more  charming  than  in  its  episodes  of  domestic 
love  and  domestic  sorrow.  There  is  an  exquisite  contrast 
between  his  letters  of  controversy  and  defiance  to  Henry 
the  despot,  and  Erasmus  the  scholar,  and  the  quaint  coun- 
sels which  he  found  time  always  to  write  to  his  little  son  ; 
between  Luther  dictating  formulas  of  faith  and  worship, 
to  thousands  of  preachers  and  churches,  and  Luther  listen- 
'\nz  at  intervals  to  the  sonjjs  which  his  little  dausfhter 
Magdalen  sang  so  sweetly.  There  is  a  wonderful  pathos 
in  the  tones  in  which  he,  who  could  go  boldly  on  to  his 
own  martyrdom,  speaks  of  the  sickness  and  death  of  his 
child,  to  see  the  strong  man,  whom  threats  and  dangers 
could  not  shake,  bowed  to  the  grief  of  a  woman  and  pros- 
trate beneath  the  hand  of  God.  We  find  in  the  life  of 
Luther  what  we  have  not  found  in  the  story  of  all  the 
saints  before,  a  human  interest  and  tenderness,  scenes  of 
emotion  into  which  not  piety  and  genius  only  may  enter, 
but  which  are  identical  with  those  of  the  most  simple  life. 
The  reverence  of  Augustine  for  his  mother,  the  love  of 
Basil  for  his  friends,  the  charity  of  St.   Francis   for  the 


MARTIN  LUrilER.  267 

poor,  the  sick,  and  the  forsaken,  are  all  beautiful,  but  the 
home  of  Luther  attracts  us  by  a  stronger  sympathy.  The 
love  there  is  of  a  deeper  and  holier  sort.  The  sorrow  is 
more  human. 

Few  homes  were  happier  than  that  of  Luther  though 
few  were  more  straitened  in  means.  The  worst  enemies 
of  the  Reformer  could  not  accuse  him  of  the  love  of  gold. 
He  cared  so  little  for  the  goods  of  the  world  that  often 
the  daily  subsistence  of  his  family  seemed  in  danger  of 
failing.  He  trusted  in  that  Father  who  gives  the  ravens 
their  food  and  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field.  He  had 
neither  envy  nor  reproach  for  the  rich  ;  only  his  heart  did 
not  turn  in  their  direction.  He  had  no  care  to  extract 
profit  to  himself  from  the  applauses  of  the  world.  At  any 
time  the  chance  was  offered  him  of  adding  by  the  power 
of  wealth  to  the  dignity  of  his  station.  But  money  to  him 
was  of  use  only  in  saving  others  from  want  and  enabling 
them  to  live  without  sorrow.  His  will  speaks  of  his  debts 
as  nearly  balancing  his  possessions  and  enjoins  upon  his 
lovins:  wife  to  discharsre  these  from  the  sale  of  the  valua- 
bles  remaining.  This  carelessness  of  gain  has  prevented 
any  charge  against  the  private  integrity  of  Luther.  Yet 
we  cannot  find  that  poverty  brought  to  him  any  pain.  He 
lived  on  in  trusting  cheerfulness. 

No  man  had  a  more  genial  nature.  With  all  its  robust- 
ness and  earnestness  his  mind  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor, 
which  even  the  most  serious  passages  of  his  life  could  ex- 
cite. He  had  no  relish  for  empty  jesting,  but  he  loved  to 
give  to  grave  discussions  a  quaint  and  comical  turn.  Even 
Satan,  who  was  a  terrible  reality  to  him,  was  the  object  of 
his  wit.  He  could  laugh  at,  while  he  fought  with,  the 
Evil  One.  The  ludicrous  side  of  any  argument  or  treatise 
never  escaped  him.  He  would  detect  and  expose  it  in  the 
letter  of  a  friend,  the  essay  of  a  rival,  or  the  anathema  of 
a  Pope.  The  terrible  decree  which  made  him  an  outcast 
from  the  society  of  the  faithful  he  answered  by  sarcasm 
and  derision.  Ridicule  was  a  weapon  which  never  failed 
him  and  which  he  used  with  astonishing  power.  No  theme 
was  so  grave,  no  dignity  so  high,  no  issue  so  momentous, 
that  his  satirical  taste  hesitated  to  deal  with  it.  His  friends 
were  often  shocked,  his  enemies   amazed,  at  the   style  of 


268  MARTIN  LUTHER, 

his  rejoinders.  He  almost  invented  for  Germany  a  new 
vocabulary  of  grotesque  and  sarcastic  terms.  To  many 
now  this  is  the  most  repulsive  side  of  the  Reformer's 
character  and  spirit.  His  most  serious  writings  seem  at 
times  profaned  by  their  buffoonery.  What  is  so  charming 
and  fresh  in  the  extravagances  and  whims  of  the  Table  Talk 
is  far  from  agreeable  in  the  discussion  of  themes  which 
the  reverence  of  ages  should  have  hallowed.  This  ten- 
dency of  Luther  has  given  ample  materials  to  his  Catholic 
defamers  to  hold  him  up  to  Qontempt  and  scorn.  His 
garbled  writings  are  made  to  attest  a  low  and  sneering 
hatred  of  all  holy  things,  and  the  cunning  Jesuit  is  able  to 
show  how  a  blackguard  was  mistaken  for  a  Reformer. 
But  the  more  candid  critic,  while  he  allows  that  the  humor 
of  Luther  was  not  alwavs  of  the  most  dio^nified  sort,  that 
his  style  was  lacking  in  refinement,  will  see  in  it  the  proof 
of  a  genial  soul,  and  a  genuine  cheerfulness. 

One  of  the  most  pleasant  pictures  of  Luther's  life  are 
those  social  eveninsr  2:atherin"fs  in  the  Black  Eag^le  Inn 
where  for  fifteen  years  he  was  wont  habitually  to  meet  his 
more  intimate  friends ;  and  on  the  oaken  benches  and 
with  the  slight  stimulus  of  the  can  of  ale,  to  discuss  all 
things  known  and  unknown,  the  questions  of  theology,  the 
topics  of  the  day,  the  character  of  men,  and  the  nature  of 
God,  the  stars  and  the  demons,  the  acts  of  the  Pope,  and 
the  intentions  of  the  Emperor,  the  spirit  of  poetry,  the 
laws  of  morality,  and  the  intiuence  of  woman  ;  the  Scrip- 
tures, the  creeds,  the  sacred  songs  and  the  worth  of  the 
Fathers,  marriage,  and  the  domestic  duties,  destiny  and 
the  state  of  the  soul  ;  all  things  human  or  divine.  From 
the  fragments  of  these  interviews  which  friendship  has 
recorded,  we  may  imagine  what  a  wealth  of  knowledge,  of 
thought,  of  wit,  and  fancy  was  poured  out  by  the  master 
for  his  disciples,  how  many  classic  memories  were  revived, 
how  many  gleams  of  inspiration  shot  out,  how  many 
aphorisms  dropped  to  suggest  whole  trains  of  most  spiritual 
thought.  Rarely  in  the  reunion  of  friends  do  we  find  such 
spiritual  talk  thrown  off  in  the  gayety  and  glee  of  unbent 
minds.  Here  the  floodgates  of  Luther's  soul,  when  the 
pressure  of  work  was  taken  off,  were  opened,  and  the  tide 
which  all  day  had   been  forced  into  the  narrow  channel  of 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  269 


some  intense  toil,  was  allowed  to  leap  freely  along  and 
spread  in  its  natural  current.  The  Table  Talk  of  Luther 
contains  more  materials  for  essay  and  poetry,  more  prac- 
tical hints,  more  spiritual  wisdom,  than  all  his  vast  folios 
of  catechism,  and  commentary,  and  epistle.  The  letters 
of  Abelard  to  a  young  girl,  records  of  an  unmanly  pas- 
sion, make  now  the  fame  of  that  great  scholar.  The  love 
sonjis  which  he  wrote  in  secret  and  not  his  eles^ant  learn- 
ingf,  eive  now  to  Petrarch  his  renown.  And  the  broken 
words  of  Luther  at  the  Black  Eagle  Inn,  which  he  would 
never  have  given  to  the  world,  show  now  the  perfect  image 
of  the  man  of  his  age. 

Kindred  to  his  love  for  humor,  but  more  free  from  excep- 
tion, was  Luther's  devotion  to  beauty  in  all  its  forms.  He 
was  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  nature.  And  he  dwelt  fondly 
on  the  charms  of  that  Paradise  which  man's  sin  had 
ruined.  His  garden  was  as  sacred  as  his  study,  and  when 
the  devil  was  too  pressing,  the  tempter  was  readily  ex- 
pelled by  the  diligent  use  of  the  spade.  He  was  as 
sedulous  in  arranging  his  flower-beds  as  in  translating  the 
Gospels.  He  would  kneel  down  to  scent  the  violet,  and 
take  the  breath  of  the  rose.  The  rich  tint  of  the  peach 
suggested  to  him  a  thought  of  the  beauty  of  God's  spirit- 
world.  I'he  murmuring  of  brooks,  the  rustling  of  leaves, 
the  sighing  of  winds,  were  all  hymns  sung  to  the  Creator. 
The  music  in  his  soul  was  answered  by  the  music  of  the 
Universe.  This  love  of  Nature,  more  than  any  reverence 
for  sacred  forms,  made  him  a  poet.  It  kept  for  him  the 
conception  of  a  living  God.  It  gave  a  swing  and  freedom 
to  his  magnificent  hymns.  Luther  had  only  to  translate 
into  verse  the  sentiment  which  moved  him  as  often  as  he 
walked  abroad.  You  can  discover  in  his  stanzas  nothing 
of  the  hard,  dry  logician,  nothing  of  the  creed- maker. 
His  creed  seemed  to  embosom  itself  in  his  quick  sense  of 
living  beauties ;  it  was  not  a  delicate  or  refined  sense,  for 
he  was  very  little  of  an  artist,  but  a  natural  perception  of 
concrete  loveliness.  No  sternness  of  dogma  could  alienate 
from  him  this  perception.  When  there  was  want  within 
the  house  and  no  resource  apparent,  there  was  plenty  to 
him  without.  He  felt  no  spiritual  hunger  with  the  abun- 
dance of  God  around   him.     It  was  chiefly,  I   think,  this 


270  .  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

love  of  the  beautiful  which  saved  the  theology  of  Luther 
from  the  dark  fatalism  to  which  Calvin  was  borne  by  his 
merciless  lo.2:ic.  Nature  was  his  antidote  to  the  effect  of 
dialectics,  which  harden  the  fibres  of  the  spiritual  life  and 
ossify  its  heart.  It  was  this,  too,  which  saved  for  the 
churches  of  Germany  the  symbols  of  ancient  piety,  and 
hindered  from  ruin  the  grand  Gothic  piles,  with  their 
spires  clustering  like  pine-tree  tops,  and  their  flowers 
blossoming  from  stone.  Had  Luther  been  like  Calvin,  we 
should  have  now  no  link  to  bind  the  Puritan  conventicle 
to  the  Catholic  cathedral. 

'J'he  place  where  Luther's  greatness  was  most  apparent 
was  the  place  where  he  loved  most  to  be,  the  pulpit.  No 
audience  of  students,  diplomatists  or  nobles,  was  so  inspir- 
ing to  his  soul  as  a  congregation  of  sinners  waiting  for  the 
terms  of  grace  and  the  bread  of  life.  He  had  all  the 
gifts  of  the  Christian  orator,  a  burning  faith,  and  an  imagi- 
nation so  vivid  that  its  pictures  wore  all  the  brightness  of 
reality,  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  illustration,  a  style 
quaint  and  flexible,  yet  equal  always  to  the  dignity  of  the 
theme,  a  facility  of  adaptation,  by  which  he  could  con- 
vince the  reason  while  he  melted  the  hearts  of  all  classes 
of  hearers,  an  earnestness  that  only  subsided  into  pathos, 
and  a  power  that  relaxed  itself  only  to  the  sweet  tones  of 
prayer ;  the  physical  gifts,  too,  of  a  voice  clear  and 
sonorous,  a  restless,  piercing  eye,  a  finely-chiselled  head 
on  a  massive  frame,  hands  that  were  feminine  in  their 
grace,  with  arms  masculine  in  their  strength.  His  dark 
hair  fell  in  waves  upon  his  shoulders.  His  dress  was  al- 
ways neatly  arranged.  The  whole  air  of  the  man  as  he 
stood  up  to  speak  must  have  been  inexpressibly  charming. 
He  was  master  of  all  varieties  of  dialect ;  he  knew  the 
idiom  of  the  shop  and  the  street  as  well  as  of  the  college. 
His  preaching  ranged  over  all  the  level  of  his  auditory, 
and  none  could  fail  to  understand  or  to  attend.  He  usually 
preached  without  special  preparation,  taking  for  text  some 
passage  of  the  Scripture  where  he  happened  to  open.  But 
his  Scriptural  study  had  been  so  diligent  that  he  was 
ready  on  any  part.  He  composed  homilies  for  others,  but 
he  did  not  want  them  for  himself.  He  loved  better  to 
depend  upon  the  motion  of  the  spirit,  and  to  give  himseli 


31  AUXIN  LUTHER.  271 

freely  to  the  spontaneous  flow  of  his  thoughts.     He  cared 
for  no  order  but  the  order  of  inspiration. 

The  sermons  of  Luther  are  often  too  coarse  to  suit  the 
refinement  of  modern  taste,  and  too  full  of  personalities 
and  sarcasm  to  meet  our  idea  of  what  sermons  should  be, 
but  they  were  far  more  effective  than  finely  written 
harangues  would  have  been.  There  was  always  a  pic- 
turesque background  of  the  more  awful  doctrines.  No 
matter  how  local  or  trivial  the  immediate  topic,  whether  it 
were  the  drunkenness  of  men,  or  the  vanity  of  women, 
the  lies  of  cardinals,  or  the  errors  of  scholars,  always  the 
vision  of  heaven  being  like  a  golden  cloud  in  the  sky  of 
his  thought,  and  the  fires  of  hell  shot  up  through  its 
crevices  and  pauses.  Men  could  see  that  this  was  no 
trifler  who  was  talking  to  them  in  so  quaint  and  simple 
speech.  The  impression  was  solemn  enough,  though  the 
words  might  seem  familiar.  What  they  saw  in  Luther  awed 
them  into  silence  more  than  what  they  heard.  It  was  not 
of  the  basket  of  summer  figs  that  they  saw,  but  of  the 
majestic  word  of  God  speaking  through  the  prophet,  that 
tliey  most  felt  and  knew.  Luther  loved  to  preach.  He 
was  not  weary  in  that  work.  It  was  his  pastime,  not  his 
toil.  He  would  preach  when  he  was  sick,  and  never  with 
more  power  than  then.  It  quickened  his  sluggish  pulse 
to  deal  with  the  word  of  God  before  sinners.  For  years 
he  preached  three  times  in  the  day.  The  Sunday  before 
his  death  he  was  in  the  pulpit  of  the  church  at  Eisleben. 
He  loved  to  preach  in  private  too,  as  well  as  in  public. 
On  Sundays  and  feast-days  he  was  wont  to  get  together 
his  wife  and  children,  with  the  servants  and  a  few  privileged 
friends  around  the  favorite  pear  tree  in  his  garden,  and 
there  expound  to  them  the  laws  of  domestic  duty  and  love. 
When  it  rained,  his  study  was  the  place  of  meeting.  A 
volume  of  these  short  domestic  sermons  may  be  found 
among  Luther's  works. 

But  preaching,  though  a  delightful,  was  not  a  light  or 
easy  work  to  Luther.  He  knew  its  difficulties  ;  he  felt  its 
grave  responsibilities.  Often  he  resolved  to  give  it  up  as 
unfit  for  such  a  solemn  service.  His  knees  trembled  be- 
neath him  sometimes  when  he  went  up  to  his  seat.  It  was 
not,  however,  a  fear  of  human  criticism  or  a  distrust  of  the 


272  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

human  effect  of  his  sermons.  "What  do  I  care,"  said 
he.  "  that  men  say  I  don't  know  how  to  preach.  My 
only  fear  is  that  before  God  I  shall  pass  for  not  havino; 
worthily  spoken  of  his  great  majesty  and  his  royal  works." 
It  was  the  thous^ht  of  the  Saviour  who  gfave  him  com  mis- 
sion  that  dissipated  his  fear.  "Are  you  afraid,"  said  he 
to  his  friend,  "  So  was  I.  But  I  thought  of  the  duty 
and  became  resigned.  We  are  bound  to  preach  ;  no  mat- 
ter for  our  own  fame,  no  matter  for  our  temptations.  Try 
to  preach  God  our  Saviour,  and  don't  trouble  yourself  as 
to  what  the  world  may  think  of  you." 

Luther's  idea,  expression,  and  thought  rose  with  the 
grandeur  of  his  theme.  When  he  spoke  of  haughty  sin- 
ners. Popes,  and  Kings,  he  seemed  to  have  before  his  eye 
the  grand  pageant  of  the  judgment  of  the  dead.  The 
Judge  is  there  with  eye  of  flame,  holding  in  one  hand  the 
Bible,  in  the  other  the  pen  for  the  fatal  sentence.  The 
royal  sinner  comes  up  in  all  the  pomp  of  his  garments  and 
badges.  One  by  one  Luther  strips  them  from  him.  First 
the  diadem,  then  the  cloak,  then  the  sceptre,  finally  the 
sword,  and  leaves  there  only  a  bare  form  of  clay,  upon 
which  he  loads  in  return  the  sins  and  iniquities,  and 
secret  schemes  of  an  earthly  life.  No  poet  had  a  more 
daring  vision  of  God's  judgment-hall  than  the  preacher 
Luther  was  wont  constantly  to  bring  into  his  sermons. 

Luther  wrote  fluently  in  Latin  as  well  as  German.  But 
he  preferred  the  last.  We  might  almost  call  him,  consid- 
ering the  number,  the  variety,  and  the  influence  of  his 
works,  the  father  of  the  modern  German  tongue.  More 
than  three  hundred  treatises  came  from  his  pen.  He  was 
never  dull,  though  often  profound.  He  was  never  super- 
ficial, though  often  dogmatic  and  abusive.  Many  men  now 
could  not  read  intelligently  in  a  life-time  what  he  wrote  in 
these  thirty  years  in  the  intervals  of  other  labor.  Men 
wonder  at  the  fertility  of  a  novelist's  brain,  which  can 
produce,  as  in  the  case  of  Bulwer  or  Dickens,  so  many 
original  fancies,  or  as  in  the  case  of  James,  so  many  pages 
of  words.  They  are  amazed  at  the  seventy  volumes  of 
Walter  Scott,  or  the  three  thousand  comedies  of  Lope  de 
Vega,  but  let  them  look  at  the  massive  range  of  Luther's 
folios  which  rest  on   the   shelves  of  our  large  libraries,  of 


MABTIN  LUTHER.  273 

which  one  page  contains  more  thought,  more  wit,  more 
vigorous  expression  than  you  find  in  a  whole  play  of  De 
Vega,  or  a  whole  novel  of  James,  and  the  first  wonder 
speedily  falls  off.  It  is  a  Catholic  writer  who  calls  the 
literary  achievement  of  Luther  "miraculous." 

We  may  not  stay  to  speak  of  Luther's  poetic  ability,  or 
to  instance  any  of  his  hymns  in  proof  of  his  rhythmical 
skill.  If  he  were  less  eminent  in  this  sphere  than  as  a 
preacher  it  is  because  he  was  pre-eminent  there.  Luther's 
poetry  was  all  written  for  music.  He  composed  at  once 
the  word  and  the  tune.  He  was  a  lyrist,  with  no  epic  or 
elegiac  tastes.  He  sang  not  according  to  the  rules  of 
poetic  culture,  but  to  the  needs  of  Christian  worship.  To 
reproduce  in  his  native  tongue  the  grand  old  chants  of  the 
early  Church,  to  revive  the  fraternal  choirs  of  Christians 
at  Antioch  and  Ephesus,  to  popularize  that  glorious  inar- 
ticulate voice  which  came  to  saints  and  emperors  once  as 
a  celestial  harmony,  to  diffuse  among  the  churches  of  his 
land  the  fine  traditions  of  Gregory  and  Ambrose,  to  trans- 
late from  the  monkish  canticle  and  litany  into  the  popular 
song  that  which  made  the  life  of  the  old  Christian  poetry, 
this  was  Luther's  desire  and  this  he  accomplished.  He 
gave  songs  and  music  to  the  German  people  which  they 
will  never  let  die,  and  still  his  chorals  are  sung  in  the 
churches  with  a  spirit  and  a  joy  which  put  to  shame  the 
elegant  monotony  of  our  English  psalm  singing. 

We  have  but  a  few  words  to  sav  of  the  man  Luther. 
That  his  mind  was  rapid,  acute,  comprehensive,  powerful, 
may  be  inferred  from  what  has  been  said  already ;  that 
his  heart  was  tender,  affectionate,  pure,  the  unswerving 
attachment  of  so  many  friends  and  the  sweet  pictures  of 
his  home  are  evidence.  That  his  conscience  was  quick 
and  living,  not  to  be  frightened,  not  to  be  seduced,  is 
shown  us  by  the  scenes  at  Leipsic  and  Worms.  There 
are  passages  in  his  life  which  seem  to  dull  its  transparency. 
There  are  inconsistencies  which  we  must  leave  as  we  find 
them.  His  words  are  not  always  pleasant  to  the  ear ;  his 
spirit  seems  very  often  unlike  that  of  his  Master.  But  in 
contrast  with  the  great  elements  of  his  character  its  small 
defects  are  but  as  spots  upon  the  sun.  A  fair  analysis 
and  estimate  of  what  he  did,  what  he  said,  and  what  he 
18 


2  74  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

suffered,  leaves  the  conviction  that  here  was  a  true  man,  a 
great  man,  even  a  holy  man,  one  of  the  world's  heroes, 
one  of  God's  saints.  In  his  soul  the  fear  of  God  was 
paramount  and  supreme.  No  mean  bondage  to  human 
opinion  had  power  over  him  ;  he  believed  in  God  and 
God's  truth,  and  spoke  from  his  faith  and  for  it.  There 
was  no  sign  of  h^'pocrisy  about  him  ;  the  world  knew  him 
and  saw  what  he  meant  and  wanted.  He  served  not  the 
expediencies  of  men,  but  their  eternal  interests.  If  he 
compromised  ever,  it  was  like  Paul  to  win  souls  to  Christ. 
If  he  prophesied  harsh  and  bitter  words,  it  was  like  Isaiah, 
to  humble  the  pride  of  kings  and  vindicate  the  honor  of 
God.  If  he  was  sometimes  eccentric  and  wild,  it  was  the 
eccentricity  of  one  who  in  the  desert,  in  raiment  of  camel's 
hair,  called  on  the  people  to  repent.  If  he  was  sometimes 
intolerant  and  severe,  it  was  that  the  truth  of  God  might 
suffer  no  harm,  and  in  memory  of  the  apostolic  counsel 
"  not  to  be  yoked  with  unbelievers."  He  lacked  some  of 
the  special  graces  of  his  cotemporaries  ;  he  had  not  the 
elegance  of  Erasmus,  the  sweetness  of  Melancthon,  the 
self-forgetfulness  of  Zwingle,  or  the  rich  fervor  of  Martin 
Bucer.  Calvin  was  his  superior  in  logic,  and  yEcolam- 
padius  had  clearer  insight  into  the  spiritual  truths  of  the 
Gospel  ;  but  Luther  combined  more  heroic  elements  than 
any  one,  more  than  all  together.  Not  his  position  and 
influence  merely,  but  his  gifts  and  his  character  entitle 
him  to  a  place  with  the  chief  of  apostles  and  the  greatest 
of  prophets.  He  is  the  Pontifex  of  the  Reform,  not  only, 
according  to  the  charming  conceit  of  an  English  poem,  be- 
cause he  builded  the  bridge  across  from  the  ancient  to  the 
new  Church  of  God,  but  because  to  him  as  to  the  high 
priest  of  old  the  mysteries  of  God  were  revealed  and 
made  visible,  because  he  saw  whereof  he  spoke.  Other 
names  of  Reformers  may  be  joined  to  his  and  impart 
perhaps  new  lustre  by  their  connection,  but  no  name  can 
be  mentioned  as  that  of  Luther's  peer. 

The  characteristics  of  Luther  were  never  brought  into 
bolder  relief  than  in  the  closing  days  of  his  life.  Wasted 
by  a  painful  internal  malady,  which  had  preyed  upon  him 
for  years,  and  which  irritated  every  sensitive  nerve,  he  set 
out  from  Wittemberg  on  his  Christian  office  of  reconciling 


MARTIN  LUTHER.  275 

strife  between  princes.  It  was  in  the  dead  of  winter  ;  the 
way  was  blocked  with  snow,  and  the  streams  were  choked 
with  ice.  It  was  a  perilous  time  for  a  strong  man  to  travel, 
but  the  faith  in  the  sick  man's  heart  could  work  for  him 
strength.  After  several  narrow  escapes  he  reached  at  last 
the  dear  Eisleben,  where  he  drew  his  first  breath,  and 
where  too  he  was  fated  to  die.  He  was  near  perishing 
at  the  outset,  but  at  the  thought  of  preaching  his  courage 
revived.  Four  times  he  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  his 
sermons  were  never  stronger  or  clearer  than  then.  But 
the  conviction  came  home  to  him  that  he  should  never 
preach  or  travel  more.  The  records  of  the  interviews  of 
these  last  days  have  been  preserved  to  us.  They  show 
no  abatement  of  the  humor,  the  sarcasm,  the  freshness, 
the  faith  of  the  great  Reformer.  He  hates  the  Pope  and 
the  Devil  as  heartily  as  ever.  One  might  mistake  the 
scene  by  the  bedside  for  an  evening  of  the  Black  Eagle 
Inn.  It  was  strange,  some  might  think  repulsive,  to  hear 
the  gay  talk  of  the  sufferer  writhing  under  sharp  torments 
and  so  close  to  his  end.  It  was  a  sign,  the  Catholics  said, 
that  the  Devil  had  come  to  claim  his  servant. 

In  a  few  days  the  fatal  morning  came.  The  heart  of 
Protestant  Germany  has  marked  well  that  eighteenth  day 
of  February.  It  is  the  first  saint  day  of  the  Reformed  Re- 
ligion. Every  father  can  tell  his  children  how  it  all  hap- 
pened when  Dr.  Luther  died,  how  they  were  sitting  around 
the  stove  together,  he  and  his  little  sons,  and  his  friends 
Dr.  Jonas  and  Caelius,  how  they  were  talking  about  the 
Pope  when  the  frightful  fit  seized  upon  him,  what  agony 
he  suffered  for  so  many  hours,  what  beautiful  words  of 
comfort  to  friends  and  of  prayer  to  God  he  spoke,  how  he 
thrice  repeated  "into  thy  hands,  O  Lord,  I  commit  my 
spirit;  for  thou  hast  redeemed  me,"  how  his  last  word  of 
answer  was  that  he  died  firm  in  the  faith  which  he  had 
preached,  how  slowly  he  breathed  his  life  away,  what  a 
grand  funeral  there  was  at  Wittemberg,  and  how  Me- 
lancthon  spoke  of  the  Apostle  of  Germany;  all  this  is  the 
burden  of  many  a  household  tale. 

There  are  many  shrines  to  which  the  feet  of  pilgrims 
press.  The  worn  stone  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  the  monu- 
ment of  St.  James  of  Compostella,  the  tomb  of  Virgil,  and 


276  MARTIN  LUTHER. 

the  Holy  Sepulchre,  will  long  continue  to  lead  the  favorite 
pilgrimages  of  genius  and  piety.  Fewer  steps  turn  to  the 
Castle  Church  at  Eisleben.  Luther's  grave  is  not  the 
place  where  his  memory  is  kept.  But  no  year  passes  that 
some  of  the  noble  and  pure  of  the  world  do  not  read  with 
strange  emotion  that  simple  epitaph  which  tells  only  how 
the  great  Doctor  was  born  and  died.  The  feet  of 
trampling  horses  have  profaned  that  stone.  But  the  Em- 
peror whom  the  living  man  defied  once  paused  there  in 
reverence.  When  Wittemberg  was  taken  some  years  later, 
Charles  V  wished  to  see  the  Reformer's  tomb.  With 
arms  crossed  on  his  breast  he  read  the  inscription.  An 
officer  asked  of  him  permission  to  open  the  tomb  and 
scatter  to  the  wind  the  ashes  of  the  heretic.  The  eye  of 
the  monarch  flashed.  "I  am  not  come,"  said  he,  "to 
war  upon  the  dead.  I  have  had  enough  of  the  living." 
So  we  here  will  leave  the  story  of  that  ingratitude,  of  the 
wretched  wife,  and  the  neglected  children,  by  which  Ger- 
man princes  outraged  the  memory  of  its  greatest  hero,  and 
leave  him  to  rest  in  his  quiet  tomb.  We  sought  not  out 
his  pedigree.  We  will  not  trace  the  line  of  his  pos- 
thumous fate. 


ST.    THERESA.  2*;  7 


XL 

ST.  THERESA   AND  THE   CATHOLIC    MYSTICS. 

When  Luther  made  his  journey  to  Rome  the  greatest 
surprise  and  sorrow  that  he  met  was  the  apparent  want  of 
personal  piety  in  the  high  places  of  the  Church.  The  love 
of  God  seemed  to  have  forsaken  the  proper  servants  of 
God.  The  wisdom  which  men  preferred  was  the  wisdom 
of  Pagan  deities,  and  the  arts  of  the  sanctuary  were  but 
the  Pagan  arts  renewed  and  baptised.  The  altars  of 
Jehovah  were  modeled  from  those  of  ancient  Jove,  and 
im'ages  of  Pallas  and  Venus  received  the  homage  due 
only  to  the  Holy  Virgin.  The  sacred  offices  were  an 
affair  of  custom,  and  few  cared  for  sacred  studies.  Priests 
at  the  altar  mocked  at  the  host,  while  they  pronounced 
the  form  of  consecration,  and  drank  the  wine  not  rever- 
ently, but  lustfully.  The  convents  had  lost  all  scruples 
about  profanity.  It  was  eccentricity  there  to  be  instant  in 
prayer,  or  careful  for  God's  honor.  There  was  not  even 
the  poor  pretence  of  piety  to  offset  the  moral  corruption, 
and  reconcile  the  devout  mind  of  the  Saxon  monk  to 
abuses  which  shocked  him.  There  was  not  the  plausible 
excuse  which  fanaticism  is  ever  ready  to  offer  for  its  crimes 
that  they  are  committed  in  the  service  of  God  and  for  his 
glory.  Piety  was  no  longer  essential  to  promotion  in  life, 
nor  to  canonization  after  death.  There  were  Popes  who 
showed  no  spark  of  it,  there  were  saints  into  whose  narra- 
tive even  falsehood  dared  not  force  it. 

To  restore  this  lost  spirit  of  piety  to  the  Church  might 
seem  to  the  temper  of  a  man  like  Luther  a  hopeless  task. 
Even  Loyola  did  not  try  to  rescue  the  holiness  of  a  clois- 
tral life,  but  began  a  new  order  of  active  Apostles.  It 
was  reserved  for  a  woman  to  attempt  and  to  do  for  the 
Church  in  her  own  land  what  neither  the  zealot  nor  the 
reformers  stirred  themselves  to  effect.     In  revivals  of  re- 


2  7^  ST.    THEVvESA. 


lio;ion  the  gentler  sex  are  always  prominent.  Where  mul- 
titudes press  around  the  dying  Saviour,  the  sisters  of 
Martha  and  Mary  will  always  be  found  nearest  to  the 
cross.  The  theology  which  prefers  mystery  before  logic, 
and  feeling  above  intellect,  will  always  find,  as  in  history  it 
has  alwavs  found,  its  warmest  adherents  with  that  sex 
whose  law  is  the  law  of  love.  The  men  who  have  written 
most  about  the  mvsteries  of  religion  have  confessed  that 
they  learned  the  rudiments  of  these  at  the  mother's  knee. 
Faith  in  God  is  not  often  taught  by  the  pedagogue's  pre- 
cept. It  is  fixed  in  the  heart  by  the  soft  influence,  stealing 
inward,  of  the  constant  domestic  lessons  which  the  infant 
learns  from  the  lips  of  her  who  loves  him  best.  The  re- 
ligion of  the  creeds,  the  dogmas  which  measure  heresy, 
and  excite  controversy,  and  give  scope  to  ingenious  argu- 
ment, you  go  to  the  books  of  doctors,  the  records  of 
councils,  the  canons  of  the  Church  to  find.  But  the  re- 
ligion of  the  affections,  the  faith  which  opens  the  doors  of 
heaven  and  joins  the  soul  to  God,  and  kindles  continually 
the  flame  of  devotion,  to  find  this,  you  go  to  the  hymns 
and  meditations,  the  words  and  the  life  of  such  saints  as 
Theresa  of  Avila. 

For  the  authentic  story  of  Theresa's  life  we  are  not  left 
to  the  extravagant  tales  of  Catholic  eulogists.  Her  own 
pen  tells  in  simple  and  truthful  phrases  what  was  the  dis- 
cipline she  passed,  what  were  the  purposes  she  formed. 
Her  works  are  the  best  testimony  to  her  life,  but  we  have 
also  in  her  own  words  the  narrative  of  her  early  decisive 
experiences.  In  the  year  15 15,  on  the  twenty-eighth  of 
March,  the  Knight  Alonzo  of  Cepeda,  welcomed  in  his 
household,  already  numerous,  and  soon  enlarged  to  the 
Scriptural  number  of  twelve,  another  daughter,  whom  he 
named  Theresa.  He  was  worthy  of  such  a  child,  being 
an  example  of  all  the  virtues  which  should  belong  to  the 
good  neighbor,  citizen,  friend,  and  father.  There  was 
daily  almsgiving  at  his  door,  there  were  daily  prayers  in 
his  family  meeting.  The  books  in  his  library  were  not  all 
worldly,  and  the  custom  of  her  parents  taught  Theresa 
early  to  prefer  the  works  of  the  fathers,  of  Augustine  and 
Jerome,  to  the  romances  of  chivalry.  At  seven  years  the 
child  was  familiar  with   the  lives  of  the   saints   and  was 


.ST.    THEBES  A.  279 


accustomed  to  talk  with  a  little  brother,  still  younger,  on 
the  great  themes  of  eternity  and  heaven.  They  read 
about  the  martyrs,  and  one  day  in  the  fervor  of  devout 
zeal,  resolved  to  go  into  Africa  and  labor  and  die  there 
for  the  conversion  of  the  infidels.  They  had  actually 
started  and  gone  some  distance,  when  upon  the  bridge 
near  the  town,  an  uncle  overtook  them  and  led  them  back 
again.  But  this  could  not  stop  their  pious  exercises. 
They  wondered  still  at  the  great  thought  of  Eternity  and 
kept  repeating  the  word  to  each  other.  They  gathered 
piles  of  stones  in  the  garden  into  little  cells,  and  played 
hermit  together.  As  Theresa  grew  older,  she  loved  soli- 
tude more,  and  prayer  became  her  most  delightful  pastime. 
She  would  spend  hours  in  gazing  at  a  picture  of  Jesus 
with  the  woman  of  Samaria,  which  hung  in  her  chamber, 
and  repeat  to  herself  those  words,  "  Lord  give  me  of  this 
water  that  I  thirst  not." 

The  death  of  her  mother,  which  occurred  when  she  was 
twelve  years  old,  was  the  occasion  of  very  serious  reflec- 
tions, and  the  orphaned  child  felt  that  in  her  danger  and 
sin  she  needed  the  more  the  protection  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin.  But  the  loss  of  this  earthly  mother  left  her  to 
temptations  from  which  the  favors  of  the  Virgin  was 
hardly  a  protection.  She  soon  reached  an  age  w^hen  the 
charms  of  the  world  are  apt  to  exert  a  prevailing  influence, 
and  even  the  surroundings  of  religion  are  not  able  to  pre- 
vent the  natural  impulses.  The  romances  which  were  as 
attractive  then  as  now  to  young  ladies  in  fashionable 
circles  drew  her  by  their  fascination.  She  learned  from  a 
young  female  cousin,  who  had  seen  the  world  and  knew 
its  tastes,  how  to  curl  her  hair  and  trim  it,  how  to  use  per- 
fumery, and  dress  handsomely.  The  change  in  her  senti- 
ments could  not  long  be  concealed,  and  her  Puritanic 
father,  whose  courtesy  forbade  him  to  refuse  these  dan- 
gerous visits  of  kindred,  secured  his  daughter  from  their 
risks  by  sending  her  to  a  convent.  Here  it  was  very  dull 
at  first.  The  pious  nuns,  who  spoke  only  to  leprove,  and 
who  never  smiled,  were  a  hard  exchange  for  gay  com- 
panions who  talked  about  knights  and  castles,  about  balls 
and  dress,  and  about  the  tender  passion.  But  Theresa 
soon  got  accustomed  to  it,  and  listened  at  last  with  respect, 


fe 


28o  ST,    THERESA. 


if  not  with  profit,  to  the  devout  homilies  which  a  convent 
sister  used  to  deliver  from  the  text  *'  Many  are  called,  but 
few  are  chosen."  A  year  and  a  half  spent  here,  however, 
enfeebled  a  constitution  not  naturally  strong,  and  her 
father  took  her  home  again. 

The  decisive  epoch  in  Tlieresa's  life  was  in  a  visit  which 
she  made  soon  after  this  to  the  house  of  an  uncle  in  the 
country.  The  exceeding  piety  of  this  uncle,  whose  heart, 
naturally  religious,  had  been  subdued  by  affliction,  and 
his  habitual  conversation  about  God,  wrought  upon  the 
heart  of  the  young  girl  so  that  she  felt  the  call  of  God  to 
a  religious  life.  Severe  fever,  repeated  more  than  once, 
confirmed  this  decision.  She  would  not  wait  for  her 
father's  consent,  and  remembering  that  Jesus  had  said, 
*'  he  that  loveth  father  or  mother  more  than  me,  is  not 
worthy  of  me,"  she  determined  to  leave  her  home  and  go 
to  Christ.  The  convent  which  she  chose  was  of  the  order 
of  Mount  Carmel,  more  rigid  in  its  rules  than  the  Augus- 
tinian  where  she  had  been  a  pupil  before.  Her  season  of 
novitiate  was  passed  with  a  constantly  increasing  joy.  Her 
public  vows  at  last  were  taken  with  singular  enthusiasm,  re- 
markable in  one  whose  twentieth  year  was  not  yet  com- 
plete. The  same  year  that  Theresa  gave  her  vows  to  a 
life  of  prayer,  Ignatius  and  his  brethren  in  the  chapel  of 
Montmartre  vowed  themselves  to  a  life  of  action  in  the 
service  of  God's  Church.  The  torments  of  Ignatius  and 
his  brethren  were  self-inflicted.  But  Providence  ordained 
for  Theresa  more  terrible  trials  of  the  flesh  than  they  were 
called  to  bear.  Such  complication  of  maladies,  such  awful 
sufferings,  such  burnings  of  fever,  racking  of  nerves,  such 
emaciation  and  pains  of  hunger,  few  have  endured  so  long 
and  lived.  Sometimes  she  would  lay  for  days  in  a  lethargic 
trance,  sometimes  the  least  drop  of  water  in  the  mouth 
would  bring  suffocation,  and  the  presence  of  any  one  near 
agony  of  the  whole  frame.  Three  years  she  remained  a 
cripple,  able  with  difficulty  to  crawl  about.  Yet  God,  who 
tried  her  so  severelv,  sent  comfort  to  her  soul. 

For  in  this  period  she  learned  the  sublime  secret  of  that 
mejital  prayer^  of  which  she  was  afterwards  enabled  to  be 
the  prophetess  to  the  Church.  She  had  occasion  in  those 
long  years  to  find   by  what  process  the  resigned  spirit  con- 


ST.    THERESA.  281 


quers  the  weak  and  fainting  flesh.  Left  alone  by  the 
world,  helpless  and  hopeless,  she  could  find  how  excellent 
is  a  Christian  trust  in  God.  She  could  examine  her  own 
soul  by  the  most  searching  tests,  could  watch  and  compare 
her  varying  sensations,  and  discover  the  closest  hiding  of 
her  sin.  She  could  learn  that  love  and  custom,  and  not 
corporeal  strength,  were  necessary  to  unite  the  soul  to 
God,  that  sickness  is  a  better  stimulant  to  prayer  than  any 
solitude.  She  could  commend,  too,  by  patience  and  calm- 
ness and  a  fervent  heart  the  faith  which  sustained  to  those 
who  wondered  at  its  triumphs.  And  when  after  three 
years'  interval  she  went  back  to  her  convent  again,  it  was 
with  a  degree  of  perfected  virtue  which  no  convent  life 
could  possibly  bring.  Now,  her  father,  who  had  before 
been  jealous  of  her  spiritual  integrity,  began  to  find  in 
her  a  teacher  of  spiritual  wisdom.  Very  touching  is  the 
account  which  she  gives  of  his  parting  hours,  when  she 
waited  at  his  bed  with  her  brothers  and  sisters,  received 
his  last  instructions  and  joined  in  his  prayer,  how,  when 
he  complained  that  his  shoulders  were  pained,  she  re- 
Tiiinded  him  what  pain  Christ  bore,  when  he  carried  his 
cross,  and  what  he  promised  to  those  who  should  share 
with  him  that  burden,  how  he  expired,  with  blessings  to 
his  children  and  the  words  of  the  creed  upon  his  lips.  It 
was  a  scene  which  no  renunciation  of  the  world  could 
erase  from  her  memory. 

We  may  pass  rapidly  the  next  decade  of  years  in  the 
life  of  the  young  nun.  Outwardly,  they  have  no  variety 
to  offer.  There  is  nothing  salient  in  the  monotony  of  the 
cloister.  The  days  succeed  each  other  with  the  same  even 
round  of  prayers  and  duties,  and  in  the  nights  come 
blessed  visions  to  one  and  all  of  those  who  watch  and 
pray  in  the  proper  spirit.  If  Theresa's  own  statement  can 
be  taken,  her  heart  was  not  yet  wholly  pure,  nor  her  pur- 
pose firmly  fixed.  There  were  intervals  when  other  visi- 
tors than  those  of  her  confessor  were  welcome  at  the  grate 
of  the  convent.  She  was  drawn  at  times  to  talk  about  the 
things  of  the  world,  and  to  indulge  memories  of  scenes 
forbidden  to  a  daughter  of  Christ.  Much,  no  doubt,  of 
this  pretended  worldliness  was  mere  self-accusation,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  mind  of  the  recluse  had   not 


282  ST,    THERESA. 


attained  yet  the  state  of  perfect  calmness  in  which  it 
could  repose  satisfied  with  the  love  of  God.  We  may  at- 
tribute this  in  part  to  the  saint  whose  writings  Theresa 
best  loved  to  read,  and  who  for  a  thousand  years  had  been 
the  chief  instrument  in  unsettling  the  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions of  the  women  of  the  Church.  While  Jerome  of 
Bethlehem,  that  restless  and  complaining  spirit,  had 
dominion  over  her  soul,  she  could  not  ev^en  in  piety,  be 
happy.  It  was  not  until  she  escaped  from  his  fascination, 
and  left  his  distracted  pages  to  ponder  the  sweeter  visions 
of  the  son  of  Monica  that  she  found  the  true  peace  of 
believing.  Augustine  was  the  reconciler  of  her  soul,  and 
as  she  read  those  glowing  pages  of  his  Confessions  she 
felt  as  she  had  not  before  since  the  days  of  her  childhood, 
the  rapture  of  a  true  submission  to  God. 

It  was  a  strange  feeling  for  one  who  had  wandered  long 
in  anguish  of  mind,  a  saint  to  the  eyes  of  observers,  but 
in  her  own  heart  a  weary  pilgrim,  to  find  herself  at  last  at 
the  feet  of  the  Saviour,  a  kneeling  penitent.  She  remem- 
bered now  as  something  strange,  how  Christ  was  wont 
before  to  appear  to  her,  with  a  stern  look,  and  an  air  of 
displeasure,  as  she  ventured  to  approach  him,  as  he  looked 
down  once  upon  the  diseased  woman.  But  now  how 
lovely  was  his  countenance,  how  gentle  his  demeanor. 
The  confessors  to  whom  she  related  her  experience  were 
suspicious  of  so  sudden  a  change,  and  bade  her  beware 
lest  Satan  were  seducing  her  into  a  vain  confidence.  But 
a  Jesuit  who  came  that  way,  to  whom  the  new  spiritual 
light  of  Ignatius  and  his  friends  had  given  new  insight, 
welcomed  such  an  experience  as  a  divine  promise,  and 
bade  her  continue  her  meditations  upon  the  love  of  God 
and  the  life  of  Christ.  In  the  year  1557,  Francis  Borgia, 
third  general  of  the  order,  returning  from  a  visit  to  the 
worn-out  emperor  Charles,  passed  through  the  village 
where  Theresa  dwelt.  His  counsels  to  the  recluse  did  not 
weaken  her  ardor,  and  his  recital  of  his  own  strange  ex- 
perience became  as  fuel  to  the  flame.  The  contest  with 
the  world  grew  fiercer,  troubles  seemed  to  thicken  around 
her.  As  her  sanctity  seemed  to  be  more  real  to  her,  it 
became  doubtful  to  those  around  her,  and  lying  tongues 
pronounced  that  what  were  to  her  the  whispers  of  Christ's 


.Sr.    THERESA.  283 


voice  were  really  demoniac  sug^gestions.  She  began  to 
fear  for  herself  and  to  mourn  her  own  exquisite  joy. 
Forsaken  by  the  world,  and  hardly  daring  to  kneel  with 
her  sisters  at  the  Lord's  table,  she  yet  leaned  when  alone 
upon  the  arm  of  Christ  as  her  sufficient  friend. 

The  great  consolation  of  Theresa's  life  at  this  period 
was  the  habit  of  mental  prayer.  This  is  the  radical  idea 
of  the  mystic  theology,  and  as  Theresa,  in  her  journal, 
draws  out  at  length  and  describes  its  proper  signs,  we 
mav  take  occasion  here  to  review  her  system.  She  com- 
pares  the  influence  of  prayer  upon  the  soul  to  water  upon 
the  soil  of  a  garden.  The  garden  can  be  watered  in  four 
ways,  from  the  well,  by  constant  and  laborious  drawing 
and  pouring,  or  by  raising  it  with  a  wheel  to  run  down  in 
little  conduits,  a  process  less  tiresome  than  the  first  and 
more  abundant  in  its  supply,  or  by  turning  the  course  of  a 
brook  or  rivulet,  so  that  it  shall  spread  over  the  garden 
instead  of  rushing  along  in  its  narrow  bed,  a  method 
which  distributes  equally  its  refreshments  and  requires 
from  the  gardener  more  watchfulness  than  toil,  or  lastly, 
by  a  full  shower,  which  saves  all  human  labor,  and  drops 
upon  the  soil  to  penetrate  but  not  to  harm,  incomparably 
the  best  of  all  the  methods.  So  prayer  can  be  applied  to 
the  soul.  It  may  be  first  a  mental  effort,  wrung  out  from 
the  pains  of  sinful  remembrance,  from  remorse  and  shame, 
from  weariness  and  toil.  This  is  the  first  beginning  of 
prayer.  It  comes  as  water  drawn  from  the  well,  requiring 
a  collection  of  thought,  a  self-examination,  an  interior 
exercise  of  discipline  which  make  the  soul  stronger,  but 
give  it  all  the  time  the  sense  of  effort.  But  all  mental 
prayer  must  so  commence,  and  there  are  always  single 
roots  and  plants  of  virtue  so  dry,  that  they  will  need  to  be 
watered  by  that  prayer  which  is  drawn  from  the  fresh 
fountain  of  flowing  tears. 

Next  to  this  comes  what  Theresa  calls  the  prayer  of 
^tii'ef.  This  is  an  even,  steady  process  of  concentrating 
the  powers  of  the  soul  upon  the  great  thoughts  of  Jesus 
and  God.  It  turns  in  the  soul  that  wheel  of  its  powers 
and  emotions  that  the  waters  of  reverence  and  gratitude 
shall  fall  of  themselves  into  their  true  direction.  It  is 
not,  like  the  first  kind  of  prayer,  a  laborious  repetition  of 


284  ST.    THERESA. 


many  single  efforts,  but  a  constant  spiritual  operation. 
The  will  guides,  indeed,  the  stream  of  divine  grace,  but 
the  weakness  of  the  spirit  does  not  hinder  its  even  flow. 
In  the  prayer  of  quiet,  meditation  is  an  effort,  but  not  a 
painful  or  wearying  effort.  It  is  like  the  work  of  the  bee, 
which  flies  from  flower  to  flower,  gathering  honey  from  all, 
but  bringing  all  home  together  joyfully  to  its  cell.  This 
is  the  proper  sequel  to  the  first  step  of  mental  prayer. 
That  is  taken  when  the  heart  pressed  down  by  its  sins, 
cries  out  for  the  livinsr  God.  This  follows  w^hen  it  fixes 
itself  upon  the  great  conceptions  of  Christ  and  heaven. 
In  the  first  process  one  is  forced  to  go  over  the  dry  field 
in  every  direction  and  water  each  root  of  virtue  with  a 
special  baptism  of  prayer,  to  look  upon  the  sins  and  needs 
of  the  heart.  In  this  second  process,  one  has  only  to  sit 
at  the  fountain,  look  down  into  its  depths,  and  draw  con- 
tinually, only  to  contemplate  the  sources,  and  not  think  of 
the  issues  of  the  friendly  stream.  This  kind  of  prayer 
belongs  to  that  stage  of  religious  experience  which  longs 
after  God,  but  has  not  quite  found  him.  It  has  got  beyond 
penitence,  but  it  has  not  reached  a  perfect  spiritual  union. 
This  is  reserved  for  the  next  stage. 

The  prayer  of  union  which  corresponds  to  the  brook 
turned  in  upon  the  field  and  flowing  over  it,  is  what 
Theresa  calls  a  sleep  of  the  soul,  a  sleep  of  all  its  powers, 
in  which  they  are  not  entirely  lost,  but  in  which  they  are 
unconscious  of  their  own  action.  It  is  to  the  previous 
stage  w^hat  reverie  is  to  7neditation.  The  grace  of  God  is 
turned  by  it  to  meet  the  soul,  but  so  turned  that  the  active 
powers  are  not  used  in  the  process.  It  is  that  state  of  the 
heart  when  it  surrenders  itself  whollv  to  that  influx  of 
holy  and  refreshing  thought,  which  bathe  it  all  over  with 
beauty  and  joy.  It  seems  to  unite  the  soul  to  God,  to  the 
eternal  flow  of  his  love.  It  makes  the  soul  a  channel  of 
his  grace,  covering  it  all  over  and  touching  it  at  every 
point,  and  yet  it  was  in  the  beginning  a  voluntary  act. 
The  condition  of  this  inundation  of  divine  grace  w^as  es- 
tablished when  the  barrier  was  fixed  in  the  brook.  And 
the  relation  of  this  kind  of  prayer  to  those  that  we  have 
described  is  clearly  marked.  Penitence,  longing,  union, 
these  are  three  steps,  thus  far.     But  even  union  does  not 


ST,    THERESA.  285 


exhaust  the  capacities  of  prayer.  The  soul  is  here  joined 
to  God,  flooded  by  his  grace,  at  one  with  him  but  is  not 
yet  penetrated  through  and  through  by  his  searching  love. 
It  knows  how  it  is  refreshed.  It  feels  the  weight  of  the 
stream.  And  there  may  be  points  here  and  there  of  its 
life  not  yet  touched,  as  there  are  plants  in  the  garden 
whose  nodding  summits  wave  over  the  top  of  the  stream. 
There  is  one  other  step  of  prayer  to  be  taken,  one  other 
process  by  which  God  shall  become  to  the  soul  all  in  all. 
And  this  Theresa  calls  the  pra3'er  of  7'apture,  when  God's 
grace  falls  upon  the  soul  all  from  above  as  showers  upon 
the  field. 

Upon  this  last  kind  of  prayer  Theresa  expends  all  the 
force  of  her  eloquence  and  enthusiasm.  Words  are  weak 
in  describing  its  heavenly  joy.  This  is  the  prayer  that 
raises  one  truly  from  earth,  and  in  humbling  the  soul, 
exalts  it.  In  this,  the  ravished  soul  sings  of  the  glories 
and  the  loveliness  of  God's  Paradise  and  forgets  all  that 
belonirs  to  self.  Its  2:ladness  is  that  of  the  vounsr  bird 
that  has  flown  about  all  day  in  wood  and  pasture,  seeking 
food  and  pleasure,  but  warbles  now  at  rest  on  the  spray 
above  its  nest.  In  this  spiritual  state  the  soul  is  dazzled 
by  God's  light,  amazed  by  his  love,  trembles  and  thrills 
continually  to  his  touch.  To  describe  this  state  as  Theresa 
describes  it,  one  must  have  dwelt  in  it  long,  else  the 
description  will  seem  extravagant.  All  nature  showed 
symbols  to  her  gaze  of  this  sublime  self-renunciation. 
All  men  are  dust  and  ashes,  and  belonor  bv  nature  to  the 
ground.  But  as  dust  is  raised  by  the  wind  till  it  shall  be 
held  in  the  air  and  borne  onward,  so  the  mortal  spirit  is 
lifted  and  borne  on  by  the  breath  of  prayer  till  it  floats 
impalpably  in  the  region  of  light. 

I  ought  to  follow  this  treatise  concerning  prayer  still 
farther,  to  do  justice  to  the  idea  of  the  Saint.  But  I  fear 
to  lead  you  too  far  into  the  mazes  of  her  mysticism. 
Prayer  was  the  foundation  of  the  system  which  she  taught, 
the  first  principle  of  the  religious  life.  But  it  was  not 
vain  or  fruitless  prayer.  And  it  is  remarkable  that  one 
who  could  indulge  in  such  raptures,  should  speak  such 
sensible  words  as  we  find  in  a  letter  which  she  wrote  to 
Father  Gracian.     "The  best  prayer,"  says  she,  "and  most 


286  ST.    THERESA. 


acceptable  to  God,  is  that  which  leaves  the  best  effects 
behind  it ;  not  results  pleasant  to  vanity  and  pride,  but 
works  which  are  wholly  for  the  glory  of  God.  Beautiful 
is  the  prayer  which  brings  not  satisfaction,  but  holiness  to 
our  hearts.  As  for  me,  I  want  no  other  prayer  than  what 
shall  make  me  increase  in  virtues.  Even  if  great  trials, 
temptations,  thirst,  come  with  it,  if  it  make  me  humbler, 
I  will  think  it  good.  What  pleases  God  best,  I  will  count 
the  truest  petition.  It  is  not  by  tears,  but  by  patience 
and  submission  that  we  offer  to  God  the  most  worthy 
honor." 

Many  years  were  passed  in  the  exercises  which  proved 
and  the  writings  which  pictured  this  elementary  piety. 
Day  by  day  the  fervor  of  Theresa's  heart  was  newly  in- 
flamed. The  Confessors,  experienced  men  of  the  several 
religious  orders,  could  not  quite  understand  such  spiritual 
elevation.  It  passed  the  comprehension  of  Baltasar 
Alvares,  the  Jesuit,  who  rejoiced  in  what  he  could  not  ex- 
plain, John  of  Avila,  the  learned  Dominican,  whose  wis- 
dom Theresa  found  useful  in  her  doubts,  could  find  no 
parallel  in  the  stories  of  the  Saints  to  an  exaltation  at  once 
so  mystical  and  so  methodical.  And  Peter  of  Alcantara, 
whose  Franciscan  habit  made  him  a  teacher  of  practical 
benevolence,  could  not  reach  by  his  counsels  spiritual 
needs  which  went  far  bevond  his  own.  Soon  even  the 
strictness  of  the  Carmelite  rule  failed  to  satisfy  a  heart 
that  wanted  to  be  absorbed  in  God.  In  the  sisterhood  of 
the  Incarnation  there  was  not  sympathy  enough  with  the 
visions  which  constantly  came  to  Theresa's  cell.  The 
nuns  there  were  good  and  devout,  but  they  lacked  that 
hunger  and  thirst  after  immortal  life  which  would  gladly 
be  released  from  the  body.  They  were  contented  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  sought  no  personal  suffering. 

Among  the  fancies  which  crowded  the  chambers  of  her 
imagery,  a  vision  began  to  take  more  shape  and  form  of  a 
new  religious  order,  which  should  consecrate  life  wholly  to 
prayer,  as  the  Society  of  Jesus  was  vowed  to  action.  She 
dared  to  indulge  the  dream  that  the  old  theory  of  convent 
life  was  possible  still,  that  the  world  might  be  wholly  shut 
out  from  the  saintly  heart  and  die  to  the  desire,  and  even 
to  the  memory  of  a   daughter  of  Christ.     Long  in  silence 


ST,    THERESA.  287 


this  imagination  was  cherished.  At  first  it  was  whispered 
only  to  her  Jesuit  adviser,  in  the  secrecy  of  the  confes- 
sional. Then  a  young  nun,  her  niece,  was  taken  into 
confidence,  and  as  a  third,  a  pious  widow,  whose  husband 
had  recently  died.  These  three  together  set  themselves 
to  establish  a  new  house  of  prayer,  where  God  should  be 
all  in  all.  Great  outcry  was  instantly  made  about  the  in- 
solence of  a  few  thus  settins:  themselves  as  holier  than  the 
rest.  The  magistrates,  the  nobles,  the  priests,  and  the 
nuns  of  Carmel,  protested  against  granting  a  license 
to  a  scheme  at  once  so  arros^ant  and  foolish.  The  miracu- 
lous  preservation  of  her  little  nephew,  who,  taken  up  for 
dead  when  a  wall  had  fallen  upon  him,  had  been  restored 
in  the  arms  and  by  the  prayer  as  was  thought,  of  Theresa, 
enlisted  another  sister  of  the  Saint  in  the  sacred  enterprise. 
More  friends  were  speedily  added.  Obstacles  appeared 
only  to  be  overcome.  The  Pope's  brief  silenced  all  cavils 
and  calumnies.  The  corner-stone  of  the  new  convent  was 
laid  ;  in  spite  of  frequent  accidents  the  walls  rose  thick 
and  strong;  and  on  the  twenty-fourth  of  August,  1562,  the 
religious  house  of  St.  Joseph  in  Avila,  was  dedicated  by 
the  solemn  service  of  the  mass.  Five  women  knelt  before 
the  altar,  vowing  themselves  there  to  silence,  solitude  and  a 
life  of  praver.  At  their  head,  renouncing  openly  all  worldly 
goods  and  all  former  titles,  the  daughter  of  a  knightly 
house,  and  the  nun  of  the  Incarnation,  with  the  words  of 
the  Psalmist,  "  Thou,  O  Lord,  art  the  portion  of  my  in- 
heritance and  my  cup,  thou  shalt  keep  me  forever,"  upon 
her  lips,  assumed  the  name  of  Theresa  of  'Jesus. 

It  seemed  a  mean  and  pitiful  abode  to  those  accus- 
tomed to  the  apparatus  of  convent  life.  The  little  bell  of 
the  chapel,  weighing  but  three  pounds,  seemed  to  satirize 
the  weakness  which  would  begin  such  a  reform.  The 
coarse  dress  of  black  serge,  the  towel  on  the  head,  and  the 
sandalled  feet  of  the  new  recluses,  became  subjects  of 
ridicule  to  profane  wit.  The  first  months  of  her  new  life 
were  months  of  mental  sufferino:  and  strife  with  all  sur- 
rounding  influences.  The  governor  of  the  city  prohibited 
their  performance  of  the  sacred  rites.  The  superior  of  the 
convent  to  which  Theresa  had  formerly  belonged  ordered 
her  back  ag-ain  to  her  former  duties.     For  a  time  it  was 


288  -ST.    THERESA, 


feared  that  the  new  altar  would  be  thrown  down,  and  the 
grave  soon  conceal  the  despair  of  the  weak  and  persecuted 
Virgin.  But  the  Society  of  Jesus,  whose  name  she  now 
shared,  used  their  art  to  sustain  her,  and  when  the  year 
1564  began  she  was  able  to  rule  in  peace  a  convent  in 
which  ten  had  taken  already  the  extremest  vows. 

And,  now,  the  great  purpose  of  long  years  of  prayer 
fairly  secured,  Theresa  commenced  that  series  of  labors 
which,  if  we  consider  the  age.  the  person  and  the  influ- 
ence upon  the  future  of  more  than  one  nation,  are  cer- 
tainly as  extraordinary  as  woman  ever  performed  in  the 
same  space  of  time.  She  became  at  once  the  missionary, 
the  legislator,  and  the  prophet  of  the  cloister,  making  such 
journeys  as  might  have  broken  the  strongest  health, 
miraculous  almost  for  a  frame  so  worn  by  disease  and 
sorrow,  inventing  such  laws,  that  even  the  bishops  of  the 
Church  confessed  that  a  Spanish  recluse  was  wiser  to 
govern  than  those  who  had  been  trained  in  court  and 
school,  and  uttering  such  sweet  and  holy  revelations,  that 
the  doctors  all  confessed  in  her  the  guidance  of  the  spirit 
of  God.  The  pen  of  her  eulogist  drops  in  the  vain  en- 
deavor to  record  the  multitude,  the  variety,  the  greatness 
of  her  services  in  the  cause  of  Christian  piety.  The 
wondering  critic  suspends  his  censure  on  the  obscurity  of 
those  folios  of  mystical  allegory  and  spiritual  meditation, 
which  rival  the  achievements  of  the  great  teachers  of  the 
Church.  One  who  is  daring  enough  now  to  venture  upon 
the  perusal  of  those  hundreds  of  epistles,  all  filled  and 
inspired  with  the  one  great  theme  of  prayer  and  the  di- 
vine life,  stops  to  wonder  at  the  physical  endurance  which 
could  have  produced  them,  and  hardly  ventures  to  enter 
the  secrets  of  their  rapture.  It  is  hard  even  to  classify 
the  writings  which  are  compressed  into  those  six  ponderous 
volumes.  We  have  heard  much  of  the  fecundity  of 
Spanish  writers  in  the  age  of  Theresa,  what  hundreds  of 
romances  one,  what  thousands  of  dramas  another  wrote, 
how  Lope  de  Vega  could  furnish  in  a  single  night  a  comedy 
that  should  shift  fifty  times  its  scenery,  and  consume  al- 
most as  many  hours  in  the  theatre  as  in  the  chamber  of 
its  composer ;  we  have  heard,  too,  of  Cervantes  in  prison, 
and  that  solace  of  his   lonely  hours,  which  should  at  once 


ST.    THERESA.  289 


annihilate  and  immortalize  the  follies  of  chivalry,  we  have 
heard  of  the  industry  of  Ximenes,  the  cardinal  law-giver, 
who  could  frame  for  a  despotism  statutes  which  a  republic 
might  covet  for  their  justice  and  wisdom,  but  the  wonder 
of  all  these  is  equalled  in  the  daily  epistles,  so  long  and 
full  that  a  day  might  be  needed  to  read  them,  and  the  pro- 
found treatises  in  which  not  sarcasm  but  ecstasy  winged 
the  eloquent  phrases,  and  the  wise  laws  for  an  humbler 
life,  which  should  keep  in  force  long  after  the  laws  of 
Ximenes  had  ceased  to  restrain  men,  which  all  came  from 
the  cell  of  Theresa  of  Jesus. 

Two  of  the  treatises  of  Hieresa  have  been  classics  in 
the  Mystic  Theology.  The  "  Path  of  Perfection  "  is  the 
manual  for  all  who  would  discover  a  spiritual  way  to  the 
abode  of  God.  It  surveys  and  sets  landmarks  all  along 
the  heavenly  road.  It  follows  the  influences  of  prayer  in 
their  secret  windings  through  the  soul,  showing  how  it  is 
possible  to  escape  here  by  discipline  of  the  heart  from 
trammels  of  the  flesh.  It  carries  the  soul  of  the  penitent 
recluse  up  through  the  conflicts  and  trials  of  earth  till  it 
is  left  at  the  outer  gate  of  heaven.  This  treatise  is  the 
Catholic's  guide  in  self-examination  and  in  prayer.  It 
deals  with  the  means  of  grace.  It  teaches  how  to  conquer 
the  world  and  subordinate  all  material  goods  to  the  glory 
and  love  of  God.  It  vindicates  that  spirit  which  would 
lead  one  to  give  up  all  ties  of  kindred,  all  attractions  of 
friendship,  the  love  of  brethren  and  of  country,  all  things 
brightest  and  most  precious,  even  the  luxury  of  doing 
good,  for  the  sake  of  a  single  communion  with  Christ.  Its 
doctrine  is  that  there  is  nothing  good  but  constant  medita- 
tion. Its  precept  is  to  pray  without  ceasing.  Its  warning 
is  to  keep  the  soul  with  all  diligence,  that  it  may  be  ready 
for  the  Redeemer's  coming.  Its  promise  is  of  a  life  hid 
with  Christ  in  God. 

"The  Castle  of  the  Soul  "  completes  the  process  which 
the  "  Path  of  Perfection  "  opens.  Here  the  way  described 
is  not  the  wav  of  the  seekino:  soul  towards  heaven,  but  the 
way  of  the  believing  soul  in  heaven.  Through  the  seven 
abodes  of  the  celestial  world  it  conducts  the  soul  till  it  at 
last  reaches  the  highest  crowning  glory  of  a  perfect  union 


with  God.     Marvellous   and   daring  are  the  flights  of  this 
19 


290  ST.    THERESA. 


mystic  treatise.  The  humility  of  the  penitent  is  here 
changed  to  the  vision  of  the  saint.  In  the  former  work 
we  learn  what  the  experience  of  long  years  of  sickness 
and  trouble,  of  doubt  and  sin  had  taught  the  devotee  con- 
cerning this  worthless  world.  In  this  last  work  we  learn 
what  the  swift  hours  of  rapture  had  revealed  of  that  world 
where  God  and  his  angels  dwell.  The  other  work  gave 
the  counsels  of  the  disciplined  guide,  this  the  oracles  of 
the  inspired  seer.  It  burns  on  with  a  strange  religious 
fire,  and  its  imagery  is  of  the  most  etherial.  In  this 
work  Theresa  seems  to  soar  with  the  steady  daring  of  the 
young  eagle  in  his  flight.  No  comparison  is  too  bold  for 
her  grasp.  The  changes  of  the  soul  as  it  passes  through 
the  mansions  of  heaven  are  as  those  which  transform  by 
many  stages  the  small  seed  of  the  mulberry  tree  into  the 
butterfly  with  golden  wing.  In  the  sixth  dwelling  of 
heaven,  the  sensation  chiefly  is  of  a  strong  hunger  and 
thirst  after  the  seventh  and  highest.  It  is  a  thirst  which 
burns  in  the  soul  with  an  unquenchable  desire,  which 
nothing  can  satisfy  but  that  water  which  Jesus  promised 
to  the  woman,  drawn  from  the  well  of  living  water.  Sixty- 
two  years  old  was  the  Saint  when  the  pages  of  this  strange 
book  were  written.  It  had  few  readers  in  her  dav,  it  has 
fewer  now,  since  the  patience  and  understanding  of  the 
fewest  are  fitted  to  such  lofty  treatment  of  such  lofty 
themes. 

But  we  cannot  stay  to  analyze  these  works  on  which  the 
fame  of  Theresa  as  an  exponent  of  the  spiritual  life  rests 
in  the  Catholic  Church.  We  may  turn  to  see  for  a  mo- 
ment the  Saint  as  the  missionary  of  the  cloister.  Scarcely 
two  years  had  the  first  convent  of  reformed  Carmelites 
been  fairly  established,  when  other  neighborhoods  became 
anxious  to  enjoy  the  presence  and  benediction  of  so  sacred 
a  sisterhood.  Noble  women,  not  a  few,  were  ready  to 
dedicate  their  goods  and  their  lives  in  such  a  cause.  It 
seemed  to  Theresa  the  manifest  call  of  God  that  she 
should  multiply  the  foundations  of  her  order.  It  was  sad 
for  her  to  break  away  from  the  solitude  which  she  loved, 
but  she  was  willing  to  heed  the  Spirit.  It  was  midnight 
on  the  eighteenth  of  August,  1567,  the  festival  of  the 
Assumption   of   the  Virgin,  when  in   the   city  of   Medina, 


ST.    THEBES  A.  291 


sixty  miles  from  Avila,  the  superior  of  the  convent  of  St. 
Joseph,  with  a  few  young  nuns,  went  on  foot  to  the  humble 
house  which  had  been  bought  for  them.  It  was  dangerous 
to  be  in  the  streets  at  that  hour.  Maskers  were  abroad, 
and  the  wild  bulls  which  should  supply  the  next  days' 
cruel  sport  were  driv^en  by  men  as  wild  to  their  place  of 
preparation.  But  we  thought,  says  Theresa,  of  nothing 
but  the  Lord,  who  will  deliver  his  own  from  every  danger. 
In  the  darkness  our  house  seemed  very  desolate.  Earth 
was  thrown  up  around  the  gate  and  the  walls  were  sadly 
broken  and  defiled.  The  night  was  deepening,  our  candles 
burned  dimly,  and  we  had  only  three  poor  mats  to  cover 
the  ruins  where  was  to  be  our  dwelling-place.  Where 
should  we  set  the  altar  of  God  in  this  confusion.  Prayer 
showed  us  the  way,  heaven  came  to  our  aid,  our  hands 
worked  busily,  and  when  morning  dawned,  a  modest  table 
of  stone  was  prepared,  the  little  bell  of  the  corridor 
sounded,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  thronged  to  see 
the  convent  and  the  altar  which  a  few  poor  recluses  had 
raised  as  by  enchantment  in  a  single  night.  The  crowd 
was  so  great  that  it  interrupted  the  Holy  Sacrifice,  and  the 
unprotected  nuns  were  forced  to  seek  refuge  behind  the 
altar  which  they  had  built.  But  it  was  a  joyful  season  to 
Theresa.  She  could  remember  that  meeting  of  a  few 
brethren  just  thirty-three  years  before  in  the  Chapel  of 
the  Martyrs,  and  what  wonderful  issues  had  come  from 
their  vov/,  and  trust  in  the  omen  for  a  revival  of  piety 
now,  as  zeal  had  been  there  revived.  And  yet  a  sad 
heart-sickness  seized  her  as  she  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  the  piles  of  rubbish  which  encumbered  the  court- 
yard, and  blocked  up  the  doors  of  her  house  of  prayer, 
and  thought  of  the  ruin  of  the  Church  by  its  fatal  schisms, 
its  concessions  to  heresy,  encumbering  the  courts  of  God 
by  vain  logical  subtleties,  and  beheld  in  fancy  the  hideous 
and  drunken  phantom  of  Reform  pressing  already  at  the 
gates  of  her  dear  Catholic  Spanish  land.  Night  and  day 
for  a  week  she  watched  there,  lest  the  mysteries  of  the 
faith  should  be  profaned.  And  she  ceased  to  guard  the 
treasures  of  her  altar  only  when  the  piety  of  a  merchant 
of  the  city  had  given  them  a  secure  resting  place. 

The  year  had  not  passed  when  she  was  called  to  estab- 


292  ST.    THERESA. 


lish  another  house  of  her  order.  And  the  number  which 
she  founded  soon  exceeded  the  years  of  her  remaining 
Hfe.  In  the  old  knightly  city  of  Toledo  and  in  Valladolid, 
so  rich  in  quaint  romantic  legends,  in  Seville,  where  the 
luxury  of  Moorish  life  still  lingered,  and  in  Grenada, 
where  the  finest  trophies  remained  of  Moslem  downfall, 
in  Segovia,  the  centre  of  frivolity  and  cruelty,  and  in 
Brugos,  the  scene  of  eighty  battles,  in  Salamanca,  where 
science  boasted  a  rivalry  with  religion,  and  in  Alva,  where 
the  strong  hand  of  power  pressed  heaviest  upon  the  peo- 
ple, in  these  and  in  many  other  places,  the  reformed  nuns 
of  Mount  Carmel  taught  and  exemplified  the  superior 
glory  of  a  life  of  prayer.  Before  her  death  seventeen 
convents  could  claim  Theresa  as  their  founder,  and  thrice 
that  number  of  recluses  could  be  mentioned  who  had 
come  down  from  stations  of  wealth  and  influence,  from 
the  most  exalted  social  rank,  giving  their  fortune  to  the 
treasury  of  Christ,  and  their  hearts  to  the  Saviour. 
Fourteen  convents,  too,  of  the  other  sex  reckoned  Theresa 
by  the  rules  which  she  gave  them,  to  be  their  proper  head. 
In  the  work  of  establishing  these,  a  singular  zealot,  styled 
John  of  the  Cross,  was  the  efficient  apostle.  The  rich 
legends  of  fanaticism  in  the  Catholic  Church  nowhere 
surpass  what  they  tell  of  this  high-priest  of  penance  and 
woe.  To  him  suffering  and  gloom  were  the  luxury  of 
existence.  To  be  immured  in  the  cloister  was  to  be  lifted 
to  God.  The  most  hideous  and  doleful  devices  became 
his  types  of  the  beautiful,  and  wailing  was  his  sweetest 
music.  He  loved  to  dwell  in  cells  where  he  could  not 
stand  erect,  but  must  kneel  or  lie  prostrate.  He  loved  to 
pour  out  his  soul  in  floods  of  tears,  and  groans  of  sorrow. 
The  hymns  which  he  wrote  might  have  been  composed 
among  the  tombs.  His  spirit  was  not  certainly  at  one 
with  the  joyous  and  serene  temper  of  Theresa,  but  she 
saw  that  there  was  genuine  piety  under  his  morbid  asceti- 
cism, and  knew  that  he  could  be  useful  in  bringing  back 
to  the  degenerate  order  of  Mount  Carmel  its  ancient 
sanctity.  She  defended  him  against  ridicule  and  calumny, 
aided  him  to  keep  good  courage,  and  mourned  in  touching 
stanzas  his  untimely  death. 

We  cannot  dwell  upon  the   labors    of  Theresa  in   the 


ST.    THERESA.  293 


hard  task  of  lesfislatinor  for  the  convents  which  she  had 
founded.  Her  discipHiie  was  an  admirable  union  of 
variety  and  simpHcity  in  the  proper  duties  of  the  monastic 
Ufe.  Prayer  was  to  be  the  bej^inning  and  end,  the  great 
purpose  oi  the  Hfe  of  every  day.  At  five  o'clock  in  sum- 
mer and  six  in  winter  each  member  of  the  sisterhood  was 
to  commence  her  morning  devotions,  to  which  one  hour 
must  be  given.  The  more  perfect  and  fervent  were  to 
pray  alone  in  their  cells  ;  the  more  gay  and  light,  together. 
After  the  prayer  the  nuns  were  to  recite  a  chant  according 
to  the  season,  select  passages  from  the  Breviary  or  daily 
service  of  the  Church.  Then  all  retired  to  their  cells,  to 
work  there  in  silence  until  the  call  to  mass.  At  eight  or 
nine  this  service  was  held  in  the  chapel.  Then  before 
dinner,  which,  except  at  seasons  of  fasting,  was  taken 
early  in  the  day  at  ten,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was  spent  in 
self-examination,  in  which  the  recluse  was  to  call  up  every 
thought  or  emotion  of  sin  since  she  awoke.  Then  came 
the  dinner  of  the  simplest  food,  of  fish,  or  eggs,  or  common 
vegetables.  Then  until  two  o'clock  the  ordinary  labors  of 
the  day  went  on  in  the  common  hall,  and  discreet  conver- 
sation was  permitted.  At  two  came  the  service  of  Vespers, 
after  which  all  retired  to  their  cells,  to  spend  the  hours 
before  the  evening  meal,  in  the  reading  of  spiritual  books 
and  meditation  upon  the  great  Christian  doctrines.  At 
six  they  supped  together.  At  eight  came  another  hour  of 
mental  prayer,  followed  by  another  period  of  self-examina- 
tion. At  eleven  the  final  signal  was  given,  all  lights  were 
extinguished,  and  the  convent  day  was  closed.  So  ran  the 
order,  day  by  day,  throughout  the  year. 

Theresa  did  not  choose  for  her  severe  discipline  those 
who  were  naturally  of  a  sombre  and  sorrowful  spirit,  but 
rather  those  of  joyous  and  happy  temper.  She  wanted 
those  whose  hearts  were  buoyant  enough  to  bear  all  their 
trials  and  hardships,  those  who  could  endure  reproof,  and 
keep  good  courage.  She  preferred  the  young  and  strong 
to  those  already  broken  by  infirmities.  Feeble  always  in 
her  own  physical  frame,  she  loved  to  have  around  those  in 
whom  piety  should  have  a  substantial  house  to  dwell  in. 
She  loved  to  hear  the  fresh  and  confident  tones  of  health 
pouring  out  the  words  of  prayer.     Severe  in  her  reprimand, 


294  ST.    THERESA. 


she  was  kind  in  her  encouragement.  She  searched  the 
hearts  of  all  her  companions  and  nothing  was  so  offensive 
as  the  least  sign  of  falsehood.  That  element  of  Jesuit 
morality  which  makes  all  thinsfs  lawful  when  done  to  the 
glory  of  God,  did  not  enter  into  Theresa's  schemes.  She 
used  to  say  "that  our  Lord  is  a  great  lover  of  humility, 
because  he  is  a  great  lover  of  truth ;  and  humility  is  a 
certain  truth,  by  which  we  know  how  little  we  are,  and 
that  we  have  no  good  of  ourselves."  She  required  as  the 
first  condition  of  entrance  into  her  convents  a  complete 
self-renunciation.  There  must  be  no  evasions,  no  reser- 
vations, no  retaining  of  any  earthly  love  or  any  earthly 
treasure.  God  must  have  the  whole  heart,  or  the  candi- 
date would  find  no  room  in  her  house.  Sometimes  this 
scruple  seems  to  us  extreme,  as  when  one  day,  a  young 
girl,  distinguished  for  piety  and  as  it  seemed  to  others 
every  way  adapted  to  the  ascetic  life,  applied  for  admis- 
sion. A  time  was  assigned  for  her  entering,  but  as  on  the 
eve  of  the  day  appointed  the  novice  took  leave  of  Theresa, 
she  modestly  added,  "  My  mother,  I  will  bring  to-morrow 
a  little  Bible  which  I  have."  "  A  Bible,  my  child,"  quickly 
replied  Theresa,  "  Do  not  come  here  then,  for  we  have  no 
need  of  you  or  of  your  Bible.  We  are  nothing  but  poor 
ignorant  women  who  know  how  only  to  spin,  and  do  as  we 
are  ordered."  Theresa  saw  that  the  novice  had  not  the 
perfect  spirit  of  submission,  and  her  biographer,  who  tells 
the  story,  praises  her  penetration  in  rejecting  one  who 
afterwards  became  subject  to  the  penalties  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. 

The  judgment  of  Theresa  concerning  her  novice  was 
not  superficial.  She  did  not  decide  hastily,  but  watched 
and  waited.  "You  make  me  smile,"  she  writes  to  a  friend, 
the  Father  Mariano,  "  when  you  say  that  you  can  tell  the 
character  of  a  girl  only  by  looking  at  her.  We  are  not 
so  easy  to  understand,  we  women,  and  whoever  has  been 
confessor  to  any  one  for  a  term  of  years  is  astonished  to 
find  that  he  knows  so  little  about  us."  She  did  not  form 
her  idea  of  fitness  from  the  present  tastes  of  her  appli- 
cants, but  from  their  radical  tendencies.  She  preferred 
often  to  take  her  nuns  from  the  houses  of  opulence  and 
worldliness  than  from  straitened  fortune  and  pious  educa- 


ST.    THERESA.  295 


tion.  She  did  not  reject  the  timid,  nor  did  she  always 
accept  the  brave.  It  is  told  how  at  the  first  foundation  of 
the  convent  at  Salamanca  on  the  night  of  All  Saints,  1570, 
she  took  with  her  a  companion  older  than  herself,  who 
lay  awake  all  night,  trembling  in  the  cold  air,  at  the  noise 
of  the  students  in  their  carousing,  and  the  bells  tolling 
solemnly  in  their  towers.  I  could  not  help  laughing,  says 
Theresa,  when  I  woke  at  midnight,  and  saw  my  poor 
friend  with  eyes  open  and  in  such  a  fright.  What  are  you 
thinking  of,  my  sister,  that  you  do  not  sleep,  I  asked.  "  I 
was  thinking,"  she  answered,  "what  you  would  do  if  I 
should  die  here,  and  leave  you  alone."  My  sister,  I 
answered,  when  that  comes  I  shall  find  well  enough  what 
to  do. 

We  have  left  but  little  space  to  speak  of  the  personal 
character  of  Theresa.  Nor  is  it  needful.  .  For  her  native 
temper  was  so  changed  and  subdued  by  the  spirit  of  her 
mission  that  she  stands  out  to  us  rather  the  type  of  an  idea 
than  as  a  distinct  personality.  She  embodies  for  us  the 
Christian  devotee,  the  idea  of  Catholic  piety  in  its  extreme 
manifestation.  To  restore  the  spirit  of  prayer  to  the 
Church,  she  lived,  she  labored,  she  wrote,  she  suffered. 
This  makes  the  basis  of  her  praise  and  the  authority  for 
her  sainthood.  For  this  the  poetry  of  the  Church  cele- 
brates her  name  in  those  hymns  adopted  into  its  service, 
which  twice  in  each  year  are  sung  in  every  Catholic  Church 
throughout  the  world.  So  religious  art  depicts  her,  giving 
no  expression  to  the  features  or  the  figure,  but  centering 
all  the  interest  in  the  symbols  which  surrounded  her,  the 
floating  cloud  which  bears  her  up,  the  anchor  at  her  feet, 
the  Bible  on  her  lap,  the  vase  of  incense  and  the  wreath 
of  flowers  on  either  side,  the  sun  around  her  head,  the 
cross  held  in  the  left  hand,  and  the  flaming  heart  raised 
high  in  the  right  hand,  the  emblems  of  a  concentrated 
and  entire  devotion.  She  was  the  instance,  if  Christian 
history  affords  us  any  instance,  of  prayer  without  ceasing. 

If  she  was  a  bigot  in  faith,  rejoicing  over  the  punish- 
ment of  heretics,  and  ready  to  consent  to  the  severest 
measures,  this  temper  sprung  not  from  a  malicious  heart, 
but  from  the  very  earnestness  and  glow  of  her  faith.  To 
her  there  was  no  salvation  except  where  Christ  and  his 


296  ST,    THERESA. 


Gospel  might  be  found,  in  the  pale  of  the  ancient  Church. 
The  very  elements  of  the  Reform  were  odious  to  her,  be- 
cause they  seemed  to  set  reason  above  authority,  and 
knowledge  above  piety.  Dispute  about  dogmas  seemed 
to  her  to  destroy  spiritual  life.  It  was  earthly,  sensual, 
devilish.  The  fervor  of  Theresa's  love  made  her  abhor 
all  separation  from  the  source  of  love  and  peace.  She 
felt  called  upon  to  warn  the  Church  of  the  pestilence  of 
heresy,  lest  it  should  be  turned  by  this  away  from  the 
sweet  fountains  of  grace.  She  was  not  a  natural  combat- 
ant, and  could  not  wield  gracefully  the  weapons  of  con- 
troversy. Rapture,  some  will  say  rhapsody,  was  her 
proper  sphere.  She  loved  to  fly  and  soar  in  the  upper 
sky  of  mystic  thought,  and  here  she  stands  first  in  the 
number  of  those  who  have  prophesied  concerning  things 
visible  to  the  inner  sense.  We  can  find  among-  the  mvstics 
themselves  no  one  who  offers  with  her  a  fair  parallel. 
Madame  Guyon  was  also  a  Catholic,  but  a  woman  of 
larger  culture,  of  wider  sympathies  and  sweeter  soul.  In 
her  case,  Protestants  forget  the  recluse  in  loving  the 
woman,  while  in  the  case  of  Theresa,  Catholics  forget  the 
woman  in  marvellino^  at  the  devotee.  George  Fox  had 
visions  and  meditations,  and  a  temper  too,  not  unlike  those 
of  the  Spanish  Saint,  but  he  was  an  active,  healthy  man, 
not  careless  of  the  world,  though  he  prophesied  about  the 
spirit,  while  she  was  a  weak,  sick  woman,  despising  the 
world  and  longing  ever  for  rest.  There  are  books  of 
Protestants,  of  the  German  Boehmen,  and  the  Englishman 
Law,  which  may  be  placed  for  obscurity,  for  ardent  pas- 
sion toward  Christ,  for  elevation  of  thought  and  style,  by 
the  side  of  her  "  Castle  of  the  Soul,"  but  on  the  whole, 
there  is  no  mystical  writer  so  far  removed  from  the  tone 
of  Protestant  thought  and  from  the  fair  comprehension  of 
Protestant  readers. 

The  culture  of  Theresa  was  defective.  She  had  studied 
the  pietism  of  the  Church  too  faithfully  to  catch  those 
graces  of  fancy,  which  adorn  the  pages  of  Christian 
classics.  Yet  with  such  a  fiery  faith,  she  must  have  spoken 
in  verse.  Her  poetry  is  scant,  and  not  of  the  purest,  not 
musical  so  much  as  earnest  and  lyrical.  It  is  rather  the 
scream  of  an  eaglet  than   the  song  of  a  nightingale  j  yet 


ST.    THERESA.  297 


it  has  found  admirers  even  among  Christian  scholars. 
Her  famous  song,  "  Muero  porque  no  muero,"  which  her 
French  biographer  has  rendered  into  prose,  I  have  tried 
in  vain  to  adapt  to  any  Enghsh  metre  which  should  pre- 
serve at  once  its  form  and  meaning.  I  give  only  a  single 
elegiac  song  of  her  early  life,  which  Mr.  Longfellow  has 
translated  with  more  elegance  than  literal  accuracy.  It  is 
the  sonnet  beginning  "No  me  mueve,  mi  Dios,  pava 
quererte  :  " 

'Tis  not  thy  terrors,  Lord,  thy  dreadful  frown, 

Which  keep  my  step  in  duty's  narrow  path, 

'Tis  not  the  awful  threatenings  of  thy  wrath, 

But  that  in  Virtue's  sacred  smile  alone, 

T  find  a  peace  or  happiness.  Thy  light 

In  all  its  prodigality,  is  shed 

Upon  the  worthy  and  the  unworthy  head  , 

And  thou  dost  wrap  in  misery's  stormy  night, 

The  holy  as  the  thankless.     All  is  well ; 

Thy  wisdom  has  to  each  his  portion  given  ; 

Why  should  our  hearts  by  selfishness  be  riven  ; 

'Tis  vain  to  murmur,  daring  to  rebel ; 

Lord,  I  would  fear  thee,  though  I  feared  not  hell  ; 

And  love  Thee,  though  I  had  no  hope  of  heaven. 

The  last  days  of  the  life  of  Theresa  were  a  strange 
triumph  for  the  worn-out  woman.  As  she  went  on  her 
journeys  now  crowds  flocked  around  her  carriage,  the 
roads  were  lined  with  kneeling  men  and  women,  and  nuns 
sang  Te  Deums  as  she  entered  their  city.  It  was  too  much 
for  her,  and  as  she  stopped  at  Alva  on  her  return  from 
Burofos,  where  her  last  monasterv  was  founded  and  where 
she  had  met  these  honors,  the  spirit  told  her  that  her  time 
had  come.  None  could  more  gladly  welcome  the  death- 
angel.  I  will  not  tell  what  Catholic  credulity  has  related 
of  the  prodigies  of  her  dying,  of  the  luminous  globe,  the 
dove  and  the  miraculous  fragrance  as  her  last  breath  was 
drawn.  She  died  in  the  arms  of  a  sister  nun.  Her  last 
grasp  was  on  the  cross.  Her  last  breath  was  prayer.  The 
day  of  her  death,  October  4,  1582,  is  memorable  as  the 
day  on  which  Pope  Gregory  changed  the  calendar,  adding 
eleven  days  to  the  year.  The  Church  celebrates  her 
festival  on  the  fifteenth  of  October. 

Many  years  ago  I  chanced  to  reside  for  a  few  months  in 


298  ST.    THERESA. 


the  city  of  Baltimore.  When  I  first  arrived,  society  was 
all  in  commotion  about  some  awful  stories  which  had  been 
circulated  about  a  nunnery  in  a  retired  street  of  that  city. 
The  churches  were  alive  with  denunciation  and  horror, 
and  the  ablest  preachers  were  not  ashamed  to  rouse  the 
\vorst  passions  of  the  people  against  the  iniquity  of  the 
convent  system.  A  public  investigation  was  made,  the 
convent  doors  were  opened,  their  mystic  retreats  invaded 
and  their  secrets  unveiled.  Nothing  was  found  but  a  few 
poor  women,  in  coarse  garments,  with  sandalled  feet,  sur- 
rounded by  the  symbols  of  Catholic  piety,  and  owning  a 
few  pictures  of  a  Spanish  virgin.  The  excitement  sub- 
sided and  the  reaction  came.  They  ceased  to  talk  about 
the  wickedness  of  the  Carmelite  convent,  in  admiration  of 
the  simple  piety  discovered  there.  And  when  I  left  the 
city  a  revival  was  in  full  progress  in  the  same  churches 
which  had  before  been  loudest  in  denunciation,  and  the 
preachers  of  violence  were  praying  with  the  new  converts 
around  their  altars. 

So  the  exposition  now  of  the  spirit  of  the  founders  of 
that  convent  will  do  its  best  office  if,  in  revealing  the  nar- 
rowness and  bareness  of  her  religious  life,  it  awakens  in 
our  hearts  a  more  quick  and  living  glow  of  devotion,  if  we 
leave  the  cloister  which  we  curiously  entered  to  feel  more 
our  need  of  the  piety  of  the  Spanish  Saint. 


LOYOLA.  299 


XII. 

IGNATIUS    LOYOLA. 

On  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  September,  1540,  the 
chief  bishop  of  the  Christian  world  signed  the  charter  of 
a  new  reHgious  order  to  be  called  the  Society  of  Jesus. 
It  was  a  duty  more  agreeable  to  the  Catholic  than  the 
ruler.  For  while  the  rules  of  discipline  and  breadth  of 
purpose  might  prophecy  for  this  order  a  vast  efficiency  for 
the  faith,  the  power  of  its  autocratic  head  might  easily  grow 
into  rivalship  with  the  Supreme  Pontificate.  Great  as  might 
be  the  service  of  this  new  order,  would  not  its  influence 
and  its  holiness  eclipse  yet  the  proper  light  of  the  Church  ? 
The  Pope  hesitated  long  before  he  gav^e  sanction  to  a  force 
so  mighty  either  for  weal  or  woe.  The  condition  of  the 
monastic  orders  then  would  hardly  justify  more  in  that 
kind.  They  had  ceased,  even  the  most  ascetic,  to  sustain 
the  failing  piety  of  the  Church  or  to  offer  signal  examples 
of  virtue.  Knowledgfe  had  forsaken  the  Benedictine 
cloisters  to  illumine  the  unhallowed  labors  of  heretical 
scholars,  and  men  ceased  to  remember  the  folios  of  Bernard 
in  amazement  at  the  wit  and  learning  of  Erasmus  and 
Bucer.  Zeal  had  become  dark  and  narrow  in  the  Domini- 
can heart,  a  zeal  for  destruction  more  than  for  conversion ; 
and  the  followers  of  the  Spanish  Saint  were  content  to 
omit  the  apostolic  duties  in  the  cruel  tasks  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. Charity  had  ceased  to  designate  the  Grey  Friars  of 
St.  Francis.  They  swarmed  in  the  streets  of  cities  as 
drones  and  beggars  more  than  ministers  of  bounty. 

In  the  degradation  of  the  monastic  orders,  there  might 
seem  to  the  good  sense  of  the  Church  but  little  hope  of 
restoring  the  piety  or  the  purity  of  the  Christian  world  by 
new  experiments  in  that  kind.  And  Paul  III,  a  sagacious 
and  prudent  Pontiff,  would  gladly  have  escaped  commit- 
ting himself  to  a  decision  which  might  prove  a  fatc.l  error 
for  the  peace  and  unity  of  the   Church  within,  while   it 


300  LOYOLA. 


would  fail  to  strengthen  it  without.  But  he  was  overruled 
by  the  pressing  instances  of  his  cardinals,  backed  by  the 
earnest  persuasions  of  more  than  one  Catholic  king.  The 
dangers  of  the  time  were  represented,  a  vigorous  and 
triumphant  heresy  constantly  advancing  upon  the  central 
home  of  Catholic  faith,  the  defection  of  learning,  the  un- 
certain loyalty  of  rulers,  the  monstrous  and  patent  abuses, 
for  which  there  could  be  neither  apology  nor  veil ;  all  de- 
manding some  instant  remedy.  It  was  urged  that  an  order 
like  this  now  proposed  would  give  to  the  Church  that  new 
ability  which  it  most  needed  in  the  crisis  ;  teachers  for  the 
young  where  teaching  had  become  obsolete,  priests  who 
should  differ  from  the  world  by  their  holiness,  and  not  by 
their  dress  or  manners ;  an  order  in  which  the  active  and 
contemplative  life  were  most  admirably  harmonized ;  an 
order  fitted  by  its  elastic  method  and  comprehensive  plan 
for  all  situations  and  duties.  These  arguments  had  their 
weight  with  his  Holiness.  But  the  chief  argument  was 
the  presence  in  Rome  of  the  men  who  solicited  this  boon, 
the  spectacle  of  their  zeal,  their  fervor,  their  self-sacrifice, 
and  their  perseverance.  The  founder  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus  owed  its  establishment  not  to  the  friendship  of  any 
kings  or  cardinals,  but  to  the  persistence  of  his  own  re- 
solve. 

Six  years  had  passed  since,  on  the  heights  of  Mont- 
martre  in  Paris,  on  the  very  spot  where  tradition  had 
placed  the  death  of  the  Apostle  of  France,  seven  teachers 
and  students  in  the  schools  of  Paris  bound  themselves  bv 
an  original  vow  into  a  new  religious  union.  Before  the 
holy  sacrifice  which  one  of  their  number  celebrated,  they 
repeated  in  turn  the  solemn  pledge  of  perpetual  poverty" 
and  chastity,  and  added  to  this  the  vow  that  they  would 
become  absolute  servants  of  the  Holy  Pontiff,  to  go  into 
whatever  land  he  should  send  them.  The  vow  was  sealed 
by  the  transformed  body  of  the  Redeemer  which  they  ate. 
No  others  were  near  to  witness  the  terrible  earnestness  of 
that  oath.  But  no  one  who  joined  in  it  ever  forgot  it,  or 
lost  the  thrill  of  its  memory.  Never  since  the  Apostles 
broke  bread  in  that  upper,  room  with  their  Master,  did  so 
remarkable  a  band  kneel  together.  Never  were  the  sacred 
elements  pledge  of  a  more  vital  purpose  and   union.     In 


LOYOLA.  301 


that  chapel  of  the  martyrs  the  society  was  born  which 
should  restore  the  ancient  work  of  the  Church  and  realize 
that  divine  commission  which  sends  Evansrelists  into  every 
land.  The  2:reatest  of  modern  Catholic  saints,  and  the 
greatest  of  all  uninspired  apostles  were  kneeling  there  to- 
gether. By  the  side  of  the  accomplished  scholar  and  the 
consecrated  priest,  were  the  flower  of  Spanish  chivalry 
and  the  worn  frame  of  a  shattered  soldier,  in  the  persons 
of  Francis  Xavier  and  Ignatius  Lovola.  A  society  to 
which  tw'o  such  spirits  were  pledged  was  fated  from  the 
first  to  be  miohtv  in  the  world,  to  defend  relig^ion  at  home 
as  it  had  never  been  defended,  and  to  carry  it  on  the  earth 
farther  than  it  had  ever  gone. 

A  hard  and  long  experience  had  prepared  the  leader  of 
this  band  for  the  great  work  he  was  here  beginning.  From 
his  hereditary  temper,  a  scion  of  the  noble  Spanish  house 
of  Loyola  was  fitted  to  command.  Catholic  biographers 
delight  to  show  how  the  very  accident  of  birth  seemed  to 
predict  the  eminence  of  the  Jesuit  father.  In  the  year 
1 49 1,  the  same  year  in  which  Columbus  gained  from  the 
rulers  of  Castile  and  Arragon  a  sanction  for  his  Western 
voyage,  the  Knight  of  Loyola  gave  the  name  of  Ignatius 
to  his  new  born  son,  the  last  of  eleven  children,  and  in 
1497,  when  Vasco  de  Gama  sailed  first  to  the  East  to  find 
the  region  of  spices  and  gold  and  conquer  it  for  Portugal, 
Francis  Xavier  was  born  to  conquer  these  realms  hereafter 
for  a  holier  ruler.  Between  the  career  of  the  chief  Re- 
formers and  the  lives  of  these  saints  they  reckon  also 
other  coincidences.  When  Luther  was  meditating  in  the 
Wartburg  his  libels  against   the  monastic   state,  and  con- 


triving how  the  faithful  might  be  turned  from  their 
obedience,  Ignatius,  in  the  solitude  of  Manresa,  was  com- 
posing those  spiritual  exercises  which  should  regenerate 
the  life  of  the  cloister  and  vindicate  its  superior  beauty. 
When  Calvin  studied  at  Paris  how  to  destroy  the  ancient 
faith,  Ignatius  was  learning  there  how  to  defend  it.  And 
in  1534,  the  year  that  Henry  of  England  prohibited  all 
his  subjects  from  naming  the  name  of  any  Pope  as  spiritual 
lord,  Ignatius  and  his  companions  took  that  vow  which 
made  the  Pope  wholly  their  lord,  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  to 
be  obeyed  in  the  least  or  the  greatest  requirement  alike. 


302  LOYOLA. 


Ignatius  was  educated  bv  his  martial  father  and  brother 
to  the  profession  of  arms,  and  soon  became  conspicuous 
for  his  skill  and  gallantry  in  the  arts  of  war.  The  promise 
of  his  youth  was  of  an  eminent  soldier  and  a  brilliant 
cavalier.  But  an  accident  at  the  siege  of  Pampeluna 
saved  for  the  world  a  spiritual  hero.  A  cannon  shot  re- 
bounding from  the  wall  broke  his  right  leg,  and  bruised 
its  fellow.  In  this  helpless  condition,  the  blundering  of  the 
army  surgeons  first  setting  the  limb  badly,  and  then  being 
obliged  to  break  it  again,  gave  chance  to  St.  Peter  to  in- 
terpose by  miracle  in  his  favor.  On  the  eve  of  that  mar- 
tyr's feast,  he  was  supposed  to  be  dying,  but  in  a  dream 
the  Saint  appeared  to  him,  touched  the  wounded  part, 
and  when  he  awoke  he  found  the  bones  restored  to  their 
places,  and  his  cure  complete.  St.  Peter's  surger}^  how- 
ever, was  not  perfect.  A  fragment  of  bone  still  protruded 
at  the  knee,  and  fearful  self-inflicted  agonies  were  tried  by 
the  proud  young  knight  to  relieve  a  deformity  so  fatal. 
With  o^reat  firmness  he  waited  while  the  bone  was  sawed 
off,  and  for  many  days  lay  stretched  upon  a  rack  which 
should  draw  him  into  shape  again.  But  St.  Peter  was  not 
to  be  so  baffled,  and  his  lameness  became  permanent. 

In  the  long  confinement  which  ensued,  the  mind  of 
Ignatius  was  beguiled  by  such  books  as  the  castle  of  his 
ancestors  could  furnish.  The  romances  of  chivalry  then 
abounded  in  the  chambers  of  Spanish  nobles.  With  these 
he  was  from  childhood  familiar.  But  now  by  chance  there 
was  handed  to  him  a  book  of  the  Saints,  in  which  he  could 
read  the  achievements  of  the  knights  of  the  cross,  and 
see  what  devotion  and  service  self-denying  faith  had  ren- 
dered to  the  most  blessed  of  women,  the  mother  of  God. 
From  his  reading  came  strange  meditations.  Contending 
feelino^s  disturbed  his  soul.  On  one  side  visions  of 
worldly  grandeur  and  honor,  of  a  place  at  court,  and 
marriasre  with  a  rich  Castilian  whom  he  loved.  And  over 
against  these,  thoughts  of  ascetic  denial,  of  the  beauty  of 
humility  and  the  glory  of  apostleship.  Should  he  be  a 
noble  in  the  king's  house  and  partake  of  temporal  abun- 
dance, or  should  he  be  like  Jerome  and  Basil  a  hermit  in 
Palestine,  and  live  upon  spiritual  food  ?  From  this  he 
began  to  reason  upon  and  compare  his  sensations.     He 


LOYOLA.  3^3 


found  that  his  worldly  visions  had  but  transitory  bliss,  and 
left  vacancy,  bitterness,  and  disgust  behind  them;  while, 
as  spiritual  thoughts  subsided,  a  very  sweet  comfort,  and 
peace  and  joy  filled  the  chambers  of  his  soul.  Was  it  not 
better,  then,  once  for  all  to  renounce  the  world  and  be- 
come a  child  of  God?  Wonderful  prodigies  aided  his 
desire  to  answer  that  question.  At  night,  as  he  prayed, 
the  house  was  shaken,  and  the  wall  of  his  chamber  was 
rent.  Holy  Mary  with  Jesus  in  her  arms,  came  and 
smiled  upon  him.  His  ecstasy  grew  daily.  His  kindred 
became  troubled.  But  their  expostulation  only  added  fire 
to  his  devout  zeal.  Hardly  were  his  wounds  healed,  when 
he  set  out  on  a  pilgrimage  which  he  intended  to  close  only 
at  Jerusalem,  but  as  yet  he  was  unfit  for  that  sacred  journey. 
He  had  to  pass  through  a  course  of  spiritual  discipline 
and  physical  endurance,  before  he  was  worthy  to  trace 
the  steps  of  the  crucified  Saviour  and  to  kneel  where  he 
knelt  in  his  as^onv. 

And  the  austerities  which  Ignatius  practised  were  enough 
to  subdue  the  strongest  lusts  of  the  heart.  All  the  tor- 
ments which  his  fancy  could  invent  his  patience  endured. 
His  horse  was  soon  given  away,  and  his  sword  hung  up 
before  the  altar  of  the  convent  of  Montserrat  in  token 
that  his  secular  warfare  was  relinquished  for  the  service  of 
Christ.  A  besfsrar  whom  he  met  received  his  fine  clothes 
in  exchange  for  ragged  garments,  and  great  was  the  sorrow 
of  Ignatius  to  find  that  his  gift  of  humility  and  charity 
had  caused  the  arrest  of  the  poor  man  as  a  thief.  His 
food  was  of  the  meanest  kind,  boiled  herbs  sprinkled  with 
ashes.  His  girdle  was  a  band  of  iron,  a  hair  shirt  was  his 
raiment,  and  his  bed  was  the  ground.  His  chosen  com- 
panions were  the  beggars  of  the  streets  and  the  sick  of 
most  loathsome  diseases.  The  children  hooted  at  him  as 
he  went  creeping  along,  asking  his  alms  in  the  basest 
tone ;  and  they  flung  stones  after  him.  One  day  he  was 
found  lying  nearly  dead  in  a  foul  cavern  which  he  had 
chosen  for  his  abode,  and  was  carried  into  the  hospital. 
But  his  bitter  experience  grew  heavier  in  his  soul.  He 
was  weighed  down  and  crushed  by  the  burden  of  his  sins, 
frequently  almost  maddened.  Long  fasting,  constant 
penance,  much  meditation,  brought  him  no  relief.     To  the 


304  LOYOLA. 


lassitude  of  frequent  fevers,  succeded  the  worse  prostra- 
tion of  deeper  melancholy.  Only  celestial  visions  revived 
him.  In  a  trance  which  lasted  seven  days,  the  chief  of 
the  mysteries  were  exposed  to  his  view.  He  saw  the  Holy 
Trinity  dividing  to  each  other  their  marvellous  work,  and 
ordaining  the  system  of  Nature  and  of  man.  He  saw  the 
great  wonder  of  Redemption  illustrated,  and  how  it  was 
with  the  miracle  of  the  mass. 

In  the  rapture  of  his  prayers  all  the  glories  of  heaven 
and  earth  seemed  to  open  before  him,  and  he  came  out 
from  his  days  of  vision  renew^ed  in  spirit  and  furnished  for 
his  relijrious  work.  He  exchansred  now  his  hours  of  sor- 
row  for  hours  of  studv.  He  addressed  himself  to  able 
teachers  who  could  best  impart  the  science  of  the  spirit, 
and  such  was  his  proficiency  that  the  learner  soon  be- 
came a  master,  and  discovered  to  his  guides  what  dis- 
ciplined piety  could  do  in  overcoming  the  defects  of 
scholastic  training.  His  hours  of  meditation  were  varied 
by  the  composition  of  the  book  of  spiritual  exercises. 
This  remarkable  treatise  on  the  discipline  of  the  Christian, 
if  we  consider  the  facts  of  its  authorship,  is  more  wonder- 
ful, because  more  authentic,  than  the  revelations  in  our 
time  of  the  Poughkeepsie  seer.  By  the  sanction  of  a  Pope 
this  book  became  afterward  a  manual  for  the  faithful,  and 
it  is  the  boast  of  Jesuits  to-day  that  it  has  prepared  more 
souls  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  any  uninspired 
v^olume.  Books  of  meditation  had  been  common  before 
in  the  Church,  and  in  some  convents  whole  shelves  were 
filled  with  them.  The  deep  devotion  of  Thomas  a  Kempis 
had  long  directed  the  reverie  of  pious  believers,  but  the 
Exercises  of  Loyola  are  on  a  new  plan.  They  systematize 
the  method  of  conversion.  They  divide  the  needful  medi- 
tation into  periods.  In  four  weeks  the  soul  of  the  believer 
with  their  help  may  pass  through  the  necessary  stages.  In 
the  first  week  he  is  made  to  go  over  his  past  life  and  see 
his  un worthiness,  his  baseness,  his  awful  wickedness,  and 
the  sure  hell  which  opens  before  hmi.  From  this  he  is  to 
turn  in  the  second  week  to  the  story  of  Christ;  and  con 
trasting  the  armies  of  Christ  and  Satan,  to  choose  delib- 
erately which  standard  he  will  bear.  In  the  third  week, 
the  contemplation  is  to  be  of  the  woe  from  which  Jesus 


LOYOLA.  305 


saved  the  race  of  man  and  of  his  deep  humiliation.  And 
from  this,  at  last,  in  the  fourth  week,  the  soul  is  to  rise  to 
heavenh^  imaginations  and  mystic  flights,  and  spiritual 
songs,  and  to  behold  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  regenerate 
state  and  of  a  life  hid  with  Christ  in  God. 

The  most  remarkable  feature  of  the  Spiritual  Exercises 
of    Ignatius    is   their   union    of    devout    speculation    with 
practical  good  sense.      They  deal  with  the  human  soul  in 
its  actual  condition.     They  take  man  on  his  own  ground 
and  reason  from   his  consciousness  and  experience.     Do 
you  hesitate,  says  he  to  the  convert,  whether  to  choose  be- 
tween Christ  or  the  world  ?     What  advice  would  you  give 
in  such   a  case  to  vour  dearest  friend  ?     Or  which  would 
you  choose  on  your  own   death-bed  ?     He  would  not  trust 
to  the  sudden    raptures  of  an   hour  of  exhilaration,    and 
his  book  offsets  the  fanaticism  of  instantaneous  conversion. 
To   its   religious  value   not    only    the    testimonies    of  the 
Jesuit  order  and  of  the  Catholic  Church  but  the  numerous 
imitations   of  Protestants    bear   witness.       The    luxuriant 
scholarship  of  an  English  prelate,  the  plain,  pious  wisdom 
of  an    English  Dissenter,  and    the  spiritual  science  of  a 
German  professor  have  chosen  the  model  of  Ignatius  as  a 
frame-work  for  their  finest  productions,   and    whoso    de- 
lights in  Tholuck's  hours  of  Christian    devotion,  or  Dod- 
dridge's Rise  and  Progress,  or  Taylor's   Holy  Living  and 
Dying,    drinks    of    water  from   the  fountains  which  were 
opened  to  the  soul  of  the  Spanish  zealot  in  the  solitude  of 
Manresa. 

Ten  months  spent  in  prayers,  meditations  and  austeri- 
ties had  fitted  Ignatius  to  continue  his  journey.  Rapidly  he 
passed  through  the  Italian  cities,  wondering  at  the  splen- 
dor of  the  Easter  festival,  and  saddened  by  the  visible 
corruption  of  the  Church  which  he  loved.  The  charm  of 
Venice  could  not  detain  the  Christian  pilgrim.  Yet  his  zeal 
in  prayer  did  not  prevent  him  from  observing  the  wickedness 
of  the  sailors  in  his  ship  and  openly  rebuking  it.  After 
numerous  strikino^  adventures  his  feet  at  last  touched  the 
soil  of  the  Sacred  Land.  Soon  the  holiest  spots  were 
familiar.  He  stood  before  the  Temple  Hill  and  groaned 
in  spirit  that  infidel  worship  should  profane  that  shrine  of 
the  nations.  He  knelt  where  Jesus  had  knelt  in  the 
20 


3o6  LOYOLA. 


garden.  And  thrice  he  traced  the  foot-prints  of  the  sufferer 
who  bore  along  the  painful  track  of  the  Olive  mountain 
the  great  curse  of  a  fallen  race.  May  we  not  believe  that 
there  indeed,  as  he  declares,  was  revealed  to  him  the 
vision  of  a  new  Evangel,  of  another  company,  who  from 
the  witness  of  trial,  pain,  and  sacrifice  should  go  out,  like 
the  first  disciples,  to  convert  the  world  to  God  ?  He,  too, 
had  reached  now  the  ao:e  when  the  Saviour  of  men  was 
called  to  suffer  and  die.  Might  not  his  suffering  now 
begin  the  era  of  a  new  regeneration .''  But  he  had  been 
trained  in  the  school  of  obedience,  and  though  his  heart 
longed  to  begin  in  Palestine  the  conversion  of  the  impious 
followers  of  Mohammed,  yet  the  command  of  the  Fran- 
ciscan ruler  there  sent  him  speedily  back  to  his  native 
shore. 

And  now  began  a  regular  course  of  preparation  for  the 
great  plan  which  he  had  conceived.  He  needed  to  learn 
the  wisdom  of  the  Fathers,  and  to  gain  sufficient  human 
knowledge  to  fit  him  for  influence  over  the  minds  of  men. 
He  could  not  be  a  priest  without  the  Latin  tongue,  and 
with  the  little  boys  he  went  to  school  to  learn  it.  One 
favorite  word  seemed  to  give  him  the  key  at  once  to  the 
hardest  intricacies  and  the  highest  delights  of  his  study, 
and  the  inflexions  of  the  verb  amo  were  to  him  of  deeper 
significance  than  the  jest  which  custom  commonly  makes 
of  them.  "To  love"  was  to  love  God.  "To  be  loved" 
was  to  feel  God's  love.  Amabam,  "I  was  loving,"  recalled 
to  him  sorrowfully  past  states  of  spiritual  rapture,  and 
amabo,  "I  shall  love,"  restored  him  by  its  glorious  promise. 
The  school  of  Barcelona  was  changed  two  years  later  for 
the  new  University,  where  Ignatius  soon  became  learned 
enough  in  the  various  sciences  to  be  accused  of  heresy. 
His  exceeding  sanctity  became  suspicious.  His  style  of 
thought  seemed  novel  and  dangerous.  His  love  for  Eras- 
mus was  hardly  consistent  with  a  pure  and  undoubting 
faith,  and  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  ascribed  his 
influence  in  healing  the  diseases  and  winning  the  souls  of 
the  poor  and  the  profligate  alike,  to  arts  of  magic.  The 
imprisonment  of  forty-two  days  which  he  suft'ered  gave 
him  a  delightful  season  of  prayer.  And  he  asked  nothing 
better  than  that  God  would  graciously  multiply  to  him 


LOYOLA.  307 


trials  in  the  flesh  and  the  hatred  of  the  wicked.  He  was 
released  only  to  beg  more  humbly,  to  preach  more  openly, 
and  commend  to  men  with  more  earnestness  the  virtues 
of  the  Saviour. 

In  the  year  1528,  we  find  him  at  Paris,  whither  he  had 
travelled  on  foot  in  mid-winter,  entering  on  a  seven  years' 
course  of  study  in  the  University  of  that  city.  His  means 
were  supplied  by  begging  in  the  streets.  In  the  vacations 
he  would  go  even  to  Holland  and  England  to  gather  for 
his  companions  and  himself  the  means  of  subsistence. 
He  gained  very  soon  great  influence  among  his  com- 
panions, awakening  a  new  spirit  of  prayer,  and  encourag- 
ing a  broader  aim  of  study.  It  is  told  how  the  master  of 
his  studies,  who  had  ordered  for  him  a  public  whipping, 
publicly  knelt  and  begged  his  forgiveness.  New  and 
strange  methods  he  adopted  to  touch  the  hearts  of  sinners, 
sometimes  joining  in  their  sports,  sometimes  doing  penance 
for  their  sins.  He  chose  a  wicked  priest  as  his  confessor 
and  so  made  this  man  see  his  own  wickedness.  No  scene 
could  be  so  horrible  or  so  disgusting  that  he  did  not  nerve 
himself  to  endure  it,  till  the  sight  of  his  resolute  valor 
shamed  the  feebleness  of  his  companions.  One  by  one 
congenial  friends  attached  themselves  to  his  study  and 
life.  P'aber  the  priest,  and  Xavier  the  brilliant  worldling, 
James  Laynes,  a  master  of  many  tongues  and  all  philoso- 
phies, Alonzo  wSalmeron,  and  Nicholas  Bobadilla,  youths 
of  the  highest  promise,  with  Simon  Rodrigues,  all  except 
the  first  and  last,  Spaniards  of  noble  birth,  became  the 
elect  members  of  his  society.  The  new  company  of  Jesus 
on  the  heights  of  Montmartre,  numbered  around  their 
leader  only  half  as  many  as  met  in  the  chamber  at  Jeru- 
salem. 

The  vow  taken  by  the  brethren  on  the  day  of  Assump- 
tion was  followed  up  by  assiduous  exercises  of  penitence 
and  prayer.  It  was  agreed  that  their  studies  should  finally 
close  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  January  1537,  when  they 
would  meet  at  Venice  and  surrender  themselves  to  the 
Pope  for  such  service  as  he  might  think  fit  to  employ 
them.  The  conversion  of  the  heathen  was  their  principal 
hope ;  but  they  were  ready  to  labor  in  schools,  in  hospitals, 
in   prisons,  or  wheresoever  the  interests  of  Christ's  cause 


3oS  LOYOLA. 


mii:;ht  most  demand  tlicm.  No  property  was  any  one  to 
own  ;  but  the  L^ifts  of  the  charitable  were  to  be  their  de- 
pendence. Henceforward  all  their  knowledge,  all  their 
eloquence,  all  their  discipline  were  to  be  for  Christ  and 
God,  and  not  for  selfish  olorv.  If  tiie  renown  of  sanctity 
joined  itself  to  :.iis  devoted  band,  the  slanders  of  envy 
were  not  wantinsj.  Ridicule  followed  those  who  would 
give  up  to  this  chimera  the  solid  honors  of  science.  It 
seemed  insanity  to  endure  so  much  for  the  dream  of  savinij 
a  world  so  corrupt.  The  day  was  too  late  for  a  new  dif- 
fusion of  the  Gospel.  The  experiment  had  been  tried 
too  often.  And  though  Ignatius  might  be  received  by  his 
kindred  with  the  reverence  due  to  his  suffering  and  his 
holiness,  he  had  to  meet  entreaties  and  reproofs  for  wasting 
the  vigor  of  his  life  on  so  hopeless  a  vision.  But  no  re- 
bukes or  persuasions  could  quench  in  his  soul  the  sacred 
lire.  He  knew  what  he  meant  to  do.  He  had  meat  to 
eat  which  they  knew  not  of.  And  the  temptation  of  his 
castle  walls  could  not  seduce  him  back  to  a  life  which  his 
heart  had  long  forsaken.  On  the  eighth  of  January  of  the 
appointed  year,  he  met  at  Venice  the  companions  of  his 
choice  with  three  more  who  had  been  added  to  their 
number.  There  they  received  ordination  to  the  priest- 
hood, and  on  Christmas  of  that  year  Ignatius  Loyola  said 
his  first  mass  at  the  altar. 

It  was  essential  to  obtain  from  the  Pope  the  public 
sanction  of  their  order,  and  we  have  before  alluded  to  the 
long  delay  and  the  weighty  reasons  which  prevented  them 
from  entering  so  soon  as  they  wished  upon  their  work. 
But  they  were  not  idle  in  the  interval.  Like  the  Saviour, 
they  went  about  among  the  villages  of  Italy  preaching, 
teaching,  healing  the  sick,  and  showing  the  example  of 
self-denying  lives.  The  principles  of  their  order  were 
digested  and  developed.  Their  vows  were  renewed,  and 
when  the  bull  "regimini  "  was  issued  from  the  Vatican  on 
the  twenty-seventh  of  September,  1540,  they  were  prepared 
with  unanimous  voice  to  choose  Ignatius  general  of  their 
order,  and  swear  to  him  perfect  and  instant  obedience. 
Twice  he  refused  the  offer.  But  finding,  at  last,  through 
the  lips  of  his  confessor,  that  he  was  called  by  God  to  the 
charge,  he  waived   his  scruples  and  consented  to  rule  the 


LOYOLA.  309 


society  which  he  had  founded.  The  name  which  he  gave 
it  was"  the  Society  of  Jesus;"  for  the  divine  Saviour  had 
appeared  to  him  on  his  journey,  bearing  a  cross,  but  with 
brow  all  radiant  with  light  and  had  said,  as  to  Paul  of  old, 
"  Go  on,  l2:natius,  I  will  be  favorable  to  vou  at  Rome." 
His  task  was  now  to  give  a  constitution  to  the  new  brother- 
hood, to  increase  its  numbers  and  to  prove  its  missionary 
purpose.  Scarcely  had  its  charter  been  given,  when 
Francis  Xavier  sailed  from  Lisbon  on  that  mission  beside 
which  all  labors  of  Evangelists  since  the  days  of  Paul  and 
Peter  are  insignificant.  Another  of  the  band,.  Hoves,  was 
speedily  translated  by  death  and  Ignatius  was  able  to  tell 
from  a  vision  which  he  saw  before  the  altar  that  their 
society  had  already  a  representative  with  the  saints  in 
heaven,  and  with  Christ,  whose  name  they  bore.  Soon 
the  Catholic  princes  of  the  world  began  to  solicit  some  of 
these  laborers  of  Christ  to  awaken  the  faith  of  their 
kingdoms.  The  numbers  of  the  community  increased  so 
rapidly  that  in  a  few  years  no  part  of  the  Catholic  world 
was  left  unvisited  by  them.  They  penetrated  to  the 
heretical  lands  of  Flanders  and  Britain.  They  taught  the 
Christian  slaves  in  Morocco  and  along  the  African  shore. 
In  Portugal  the  sovereign  gave  them  the  chief  direction  of 
religion,  and  the  Indians  of  Canada  and  Brazil  heard 
from  their  lips  the  same  holy  faith  to  which  thousands 
listened  on  the  coasts  of  Malacca,  Japan  and  Sumatra. 
They  were  present  in  the  assemblies  of  the  Church  to 
watch  and  guide  the  course  of  affairs.  They  were  present 
in  the  courts  of  kings  to  remind  monarchs  of  their  duty 
to  a  higher  ruler.  Men  saw  them  ministering  to  disease 
in  its  most  loathsome  forms,  and  braving  the  most  fatal 
dangers  of  pestilence,  war,  and  famine.  Habited  like 
common  priests,  they  were  found  where  no  priests  would 
go,  and  lived  a  life  which  few  priests  lived.  Their  numer- 
ous colleges  became  to  the  nations  seminaries  of  the 
soundest  learning.  It  was  a  principal  feature  in  their 
plan  that  they  should  educate  the  children  of  every 
Catholic  land  and  rear  so  a  generation  of  true  believers. 
In  the  view  of  Ignatius,  all  education  which  was  not  Chris- 
tian was  worthless,  and  no  education  could  be  called 
Christian   which  did   not,  along  with  the  sciences  of  the 


3IO  LOYOLA. 


world,  teach  the  better  science  of  spiritual  discipline 
and  absolute  obedience  to  Christ  in  his  Church. 

The  constitution  which  Ignatius  gave  to  his  new  society 
shows  his  remarkable  wisdom,  penetration,  and  practical 
skill.  It  borrowed  all  the  good  points  of  the  other  monas- 
tic systems,  omitting  their  defects  and  supplying  their 
deficiencies.  In  government  he  made  it  an  elective  des- 
potism. The  power  of  the  general  was  absolute  and  entire 
over  all  the  other  officers  and  members.  To  him  universal 
obedience  was  due,  subject  however  to  the  negative  of 
the  Supreme  Pontiff.  Only  the  Pope  could  absolve  a 
Jesuit  from  the  duty  of  submission.  There  were  various 
grades  of  membership.  One  month  of  confession  and 
prayer  was  to  precede  all  study  in  the  order.  Then  came 
two  years  of  novitiate,  in  which  the  duties  without  the 
vows  of  the  order  were  laid  upon  them,  and  it  could  be 
decided  whether  they  were  fit  for  the  order  or  the  order  fit 
for  them.  If  this  probation  is  satisfactory,  then  the  novice 
is  admitted  to  take  the  three  ordinary  vows  of  poverty, 
chastity,  and  obedience,  and  to  be  called  a  religious  man, 
though  not  a  perfect  Jesuit.  He  is  now  subject  to  the  orders 
of  the  general.  He  must  work  and  study  where  his 
place  is  assigned,  but  he  is  only  an  assistant,  a  spiritual  co- 
adjutor in  the  house  of  Ignatius.  A  long  trial  must  prove 
his  fitness  to  take  the  fourth  irrevocable  crowning  vow  of 
entire  submission  to  the  will  of  the  Pope.  He  then  be- 
comes one  of  the  "professed,"  and  is  liable  to  any  burden 
or  any  fate  which  it  may  please  his  superiors  to  set  upon 
him.  None  proceed  to  this  last  degree  except  such  as  are 
accomplished  in  study  and  endurance,  furnished  and  dis- 
ciplined for  the  hardest  Christian  work. 

The  company  was  to  have  many  hands,  but  a  single 
will  and  a  single  mind.  And  this  end  was  reached  by  a 
system  of  mutual  confession.  Every  inferior  told  all  his 
thoughts,  desires,  and  acts  at  once  to  the  brother  above 
him,  and  wdth  him  this  revelation  need  not  be  secret,  but 
he  had  the  right  to  hand  it  upward  to  the  head  of  the 
order.  Every  rector  of  a  college  and  every  ruler  of  a 
province  had  to  report  monthly  to  the  general,  and  once 
in  three  years  to  give  an  account  of  all  the  Jesuits  in  his 
dominion.     The  general  was  chosen  for  life,  and  could  not 


LOYOLA.  3" 


be  resisted  or  deposed  except  by  the  congregation  of  the 
whole  order.  Five  assistants  help  him  to  prepare  work 
and  assign  the  tasks  for  the  brethren.  No  man  can  be 
admitted  member  who  has  come  from  any  other  religious 
order,  from  the  Carmelite,  Theatine,  Franciscan,  or  even 
from  the  regular  priesthood,  for  Ignatius  wished  no  divided 
love  in  the  heart  of  any  Jesuit.  No  man  once  a  member 
can  accept  any  religious  honor,  neither  bishop's  seat  nor 
cardinal's  hat ;  he  must  decline  all  titles  or  authority  but 
that  which  his  vows  have  bestowed.  Even  for  the  Papacy 
he  is  not  a  lawful  candidate,  and  must  refuse  it  if  offered. 
Unlike  the  other  monastic  systems,  the  constitution  of  the 
Jesuits  subjected  the  heart  and  will,  and  not  the  habits  of 
its  members.  They  might  choose  their  own  dress,  their 
own  litany,  their  ov/n  method  of  penance,  prayer,  and 
praise.  They  might  follow  that  course  of  life  which  suited 
best  their  natural  bent,  might  be  politicians,  soldiers, 
students,  orators,  physicians,  even  traders,  if  they  would 
only  keep  true  to  their  vows,  remember  in  all  things  the 
good  of  Christ's  cause,  and  receive  the  command  of  the 
superior  as  the  sovereign  voice  of  Christ. 

In  the  Jesuit  institution  the  duties  of  the  active  and 
contemplative  life  are  admirably  balanced.  There  is 
room  for  all  the  agonies  of  penitence,  and  raptures  of  en- 
thusiasm, but  they  are  prevented  from  excess  by  contact 
with  the  practical  affairs  of  life.  The  followers  of  Loyola 
were  to  be  in  the  world,  but  not  of  it.  They  were  to  pre- 
pare for  the  joys  of  the  saints  to  come  by  dealing  with 
sinners  now.  No  convents  were  given  them  to  dwell  in. 
The  House  of  the  Professed  which  was  assigned  in  Rome 
to  their  Order  by  the  Pope,  was  not  a  monastery,  but  a 
sort  of  headquarters  to  the  order.  If  the  general  dwelt 
there  it  was  rather  as  a  king  dwells  in  his  castle,  than  as  a 
prior  in  his  abbey.  There  the  dispatches  were  opened 
and  read  from  all  parts  of  the  world  where  the  brethren 
were  gone.  Thence  the  decrees  went  out.  It  was  a  place 
of  discipline  indeed,  stern,  long,  and  constant.  But  the 
discipline  was  not  monastic,  only  the  choice  of  each  indi- 
vidual for  his  own  perfection.  If  the  world  did  not  much 
enter  there,  it  was  not  because  barred  doors  and  grated 
windows,  and   an  awful   gravity  seemed  to  shut  it  out,  but 


312  LOYOLA. 


because  the  hearts  of  the  brethren  in  that  centre  of  light 
and  holiness,  so  near  to  the  great  head  of  their  company, 
were  naturally  filled  with  unworldly  thoughts  and  pious 
emotions.  There  they  knew  that  the  holy  father  wrote 
and  prayed,  and  there  they  believed  that  the  Holy  Spirit, 
with  fiery  tongue,  descended  to  guide  his  pen  as  he  com- 
posed his  decrees,  and  to  breathe  through  every  sentence 
the  glow  and  unction  of  a  new  apostle.  Well  might  a 
more  than  convent  silence  reign,  a  more  than  cloistral 
piety  be  practised,  in  the  house  where  the  messages  of  a 
world's  redemption  were  daily  left. 

The  system  of  study  which  Ignatius  enjoined  finely  com- 
bined the  spiritual  and  practical  elements.  It  allowed  all 
secular  sciences,  but  required  that  all  should  be  devoted 
to  the  glory  of  God.  Every  day  mass  was  to  be  heard  by 
every  scholar.  Every  exercise  must  begin  with  prayer. 
The  writings  of  the  Fathers  must  be  made  familiar  to  the 
students  of  philosophy.  The  native  tongue  of  each  nation 
should  be  studied  in  its  colleges,  and  preachers  should 
aim  to  give  the  Gospel  in  the  most  familiar  speech.  Igna- 
tius,prized  sanctity  higher  than  learning,  but  he  did  not 
confound  sanctity  with  ignorance.  He  required  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  heart  and  will,  but  not  of  the  taste  or  intellect. 
He  was  glad  to  enlist  logic  or  letters  on  the  side  of  God's 
truth.  He  would  encourage  and  develop  individual  traits 
of  character  while  he  brouirht  his  followers  all  to  be  one 
in  Jesus.  There  were  grades  of  proficiency  among  them, 
but  not  of  honor  or  privilege.  The  child  of  noble  parents 
should  fare  no  better  than  the  peasant's  son,  though  he 
might  bring  his  treasures  as  a  gift  to  the  altar.  The  use 
of  ability,  but  not  the  claim  of  rank,  were  recognized  in 
the  Jesuit  constitution.  Whatsoever  sphere  of  Christian 
labor  any  were  best  qualified  to  fill,  to  that  should  their 
powers  be  guided,  whether  to  controversy  or  to  instruction, 
whether  to  diplomacy  or  to  alms-giving.  There  was  no 
room  in  his  scheme  for  any  pride,  the  pride  of  holiness, 
of  success  or  even  of  extreme  humilitv.  When  all  the 
command  was  fulfilled  and  the  worn  body  and  weary  mind 
could  labor  no  longer,  the  Society  of  Jesus  were  to  say  as 
their  great  Master  had  bidden,  ''  We  are  unprofitable  ser- 
vants.    We  have  done  what  it  is  our  duty  to  do." 


LOYOLA.  31 


o  'o 


It  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  testimonies  of  the  super- 
human zeal  and  enero^v  with  which  Ignatius  labored  to 
establish  in  the  hearts  of  his  society  the  spirit  of  their 
vows  and  to  extend  their  influence  far  and  wide.  And  yet 
he  was  scrupulously  watchful  that  no  violations  of  the 
rule  should  take  place,  and  that  no  unworthy  members 
should  be  enlisted  in  the  order.  Often  he  rejected  those 
who  seemed  most  lit  by  their  fervor  and  ascetic  zeal, 
because  he  discovered  elements  of  weakness  in  their  na- 
ture. He  could  not  be  propitiated  by  flattery  or  deceived 
by  intrigue.  His  keen  eye  detected  pretenders  to  holiness 
beneath  their  mask,  and  his  searching  tests  revealed  every 
lurking  remnant  of  selfish  love.  Yet  he  was  not  harsh 
towards  those  in  whom  worldliness  seemed  obstinately 
to  linger.  If  he  rejected  them,  it  was  without  scorn 
or  rebuke.  Some  whose  natures  were  so  lisiht  and  triflinsr 
that  spiritual  exercises  seemed  to  be  shaken  from  their 
hearts  as  rain-drops  from  the  branches,  he  encouraged  to 
persevere,  till  at  last  their  natures  were  subdued.  He 
read  almost  intuitively  the  inner  characters  of  his  friends, 
and  discovered  often  in  the  beginning  what  it  took  years 
of  hard  discipline  to  prove  to  the  eyes  of  others.  Often 
his  disposition  of  one  or  another  to  different  spheres  of 
duty  seemed  strange  and  of  doubtful  wisdom,  but  the 
event  always  vindicated  his  sagacity.  He  interpreted  to 
all  their  proper  oflice  beneath  their  transient  preference, 
and  made  them  confess  that  he  knew  them  better  than 
they  knew  themselves. 

Ignatius  had  learned  in  his  long  course  of  trial  and 
endurance  one  great  virtue  of  a  spiritual  ruler,  a  stoical 
firmness.  No  catastrophes  could  frighten  him,  no  persua- 
sions could  move  him.  His  fiery  heart  seemed  wholly 
submissive  to  his  calm  and  even  will.  He  was  every  day 
the  same,  never  joyful,  never  sad,  receiving  all  tidings, 
whether  of  the  success  or  failure  of  his  plans,  of  new 
colleges  founded,  or  the  death  of  friends  whom  he  trusted, 
with  equal  serenity.  He  was  always  ready  for  the  busi- 
ness of  the  hour,  whatever  had  been  his  most  recent  ex- 
perience. One  evening  a  brother  of  his  order  came  to 
speak  with  him  about  an  important  affair,  but  finding  that 
Ignatius  had  just  returned  from  a  long  and  fruitless  wait- 


314  LOYOLA, 


ing  at  the  Papal  court,  postponed  his  business  till  the 
morrow.  Explaining  then  the  reason  of  his  delay,  he  re- 
ceived such  a  reprimand  that  for  a  week  he  dared  not  look 
upon  the  face  of  the  holy  father.  He  could  assume,  in- 
deed, severity  of  countenance  to  give  force  to  a  rebuke, 
but  was  never  betrayed  into  a  loss  of  that  majestic  sweet- 
ness of  look  which  awed  while  it  fascinated  every  beholder. 
The  expression  of  his  countenance  was  one  of  deep, 
spiritual  repose,  and  from  his  round  black  eye  and  furrowed 
brow  there  fell  at  once  the  expression  of  ineffable  pity 
and  immovable  peace.  The  smile  that  was  wanting  on  his 
closely  drawn  lips  played  over  all  his  features,  and  seemed 
to  his  enthusiastic  friends  to  touch  them  with  an  angel's 
grace,  inspiring  confidence,  while  it  prevented  a  too  near 
approach.  They  entered  before  him  with  fear,  hardly 
daring  to  meet  that  still,  abstracted,  passionless  gaze. 
But  his  gentle  voice  at  once  restored  them. 

Few  men  have  ever  learned  so  completely  to  despise 
physical  pain  and  danger.  They  tell  how  under  a  severe 
surgical  operation  he  gave  no  sign  of  any  suffering,  either 
in  quivering  muscle  or  sound  of  complaint.  One  day 
descending  a  high  flight  of  steps,  he  fell  and  was  supposed 
to  be  killed,  but  he  rose  with  no  remark,  not  even  looking 
behind  him  to  see  how  the  accident  had  chanced.  He 
was  not  afraid  of  evil  tidings.  As  he  was  conversing  with 
some  pious  friends  about  heavenly  things,  a  messenger 
came  in  suddenly  in  consternation  and  whispered  some- 
thing in  his  ear.  "Very  well,"  said  Ignatius,  and  dismissed 
him,  continuing  for  an  hour  longer  without  change  the 
conversation  which  had  been  interrupted.  At  the  moment 
of  his  leaving,  some  one  ventured  to  ask  if  the  messenger 
had  not  brought  him  some  bad  news.  "Onlv  this,"  said 
he,  "  that  the  officers  have  just  come  to  seize  our  furniture 
in  payment  of  a  debt  of  a  few  crowns  which  we  have  con- 
tracted. But  if  they  take  our  beds,  we  will  sleep  on  the 
floor,  which  is  very  proper  for  poor  people  like  us.  I  only 
hope  that  they  will  leave  some  of  my  papers.  But  if  they 
take  these  I  shall  not  quarrel  about  it."  A  story  got 
round  once  that  the  Jesuits  were  encouraging  a  revolt 
against  the  Papal  power  and  had  a  large  quantity  of  arms 
stored   in  their  house.     Such  a  report  might  well  be  ex- 


LOYOLA.  315 


pected  to  vex,  if  anything  could,  the  loyal  heart  of  Igna- 
tius. But  when  the  officers  came,  at  the  order  of  the  Pope, 
to  search  the  establishment,  he  conducted  them  into  every 
room,  and  dismissed  them  with  the  same  politeness  that 
he  would  have  shown  to  a  visit  of  friendship. 

This  firmness  of  temper  in  Ignatius  manifested  itself  in 
great  moderation  and  evenness  of  speech.  He  was  not, 
like  Luther,  prodigal  of  words,  or  strong  in  his  phrases  of 
like  and  dislike.  No  one  who  has  so  won  the  attachment 
of  his  brethren  ever  praised  so  sparingly.  No  one  ever 
blamed  with  less  asperity.  His  words  were  choice,  clear, 
and  frank,  but  not  copious  ;  truthful  more  than  beautiful. 
It  was  w/iaf  he  said  which  they  remembered,  more  than 
how  he  said  it.  He  was  specially  careful  to  speak  no  ill 
of  his  enemies,  whether  in  or  out  of  the  Church,  and  those 
who  brought  to  his  ear  the  floating  calumnies  of  the  world 
about  himself  and  his  order,  did  not  hear  the  natural 
bitter  reply.  In  all  affairs  of  business,  every  syllable,  in 
sense  and  sound,  was  maturely  considered  before  it  was 
uttered.  And  every  letter  which  his  secretary  wrote  he 
read  over,  examined  and  corrected.  It  is  a  remarkable 
circumstance  in  the  life  of  Ignatius  when  you  consider  the 
manifold  varieties  of  temper  and  character  with  which  he 
dealt,  and  the  important  and  delicate  relations  in  which 
he  was  placed  at  once  to  his  own  brethren,  to  the  Church, 
and  to  the  world,  that  seldom,  almost  never,  did  a  misun- 
derstanding arise  from  any  thing  which  he  said.  His 
prudence  of  speech  would  have  seemed  almost  miraculous, 
if  his  wisdom  had  not  seemed  so  divine. 

And  the  reverence  which  his  disciples  had  for  the  wis- 
dom of  their  general  amounted  quite  to  idolatry.  His 
slightest  hint  became  for  them  a  rule  of  action.  A  single 
word  of  encouragement  from  him  was  lasting  joy  to  them. 
His  spiritual  exercises  became  for  them  a  manual  of  devo- 
tion more  sacred  even  than  the  work  of  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
which  Catholics,  and  Ignatius  more  especially,  prized  next 
to  the  Bible.  They  knew  that  his  scholarship  would  not 
compare  with  that  of  many  doctors  of  the  Church,  or 
brethren  of  their  own  order,  and  inferred  that  his  superior 
insight  into  heavenly  truths  must  be  the  result  of  inspira- 
tion.    Was  that  human  skill  merely  that  with  such  narrow 


3i6  LOYOLA. 


means  of  knowledge  could  declare  a  science  beyond  all 
the  philosophy  of  the  schools,  could  frame  and  organize  a 
society  of  such  wonderful  poise  and  harmony,  could  give 
the  reason  so  profoundly,  while  it  showed  the  sacred  issue 
so  well  of  perfect  humility  and  constant  suffering  ?  His 
common  acts  accordingly  became  miracles,  and  a  long  list 
of  these  is  given  by  his  biographers,  though  we  may  pro- 
fanely refuse  to  allow  in  them  the  miraculous  element. 
He  was  worshipped  as  a  saint  before  his  death,  and  after- 
wards at  the  altar,  one  more  daring  than  the  rest,  ventured 
to  substitute  in  the  mass  for  the  name  of  Jesus,  "  Sante 
Ignati,  ora  pro  nobis,"  "Holy  Ignatius,  pray  for  us." 
Even  fragments  of  his  dress,  and  the  refuse  of  his  nails 
were  prized  and  worn  as  amulets.  Francis  Xavier,  who 
wore  around  his  neck  a  small  bone  of  the  Apostle  Thomas, 
the  first  Evangelist  of  India,  was  accustomed  to  tear  from 
the  letters  of  Ignatius  his  signature,  and  fasten  it  to  this 
bone  that  his  teachings  with  the  heathen  might  have  more 


efficacy.  And  it  is  said  that  his  letters  in  return  were  all 
written  on  his  knees  and  bathed  with  his  tears.  Charles 
Spinola,  a  Jesuit  who  was  roasted  in  Japan  before  a  slow 
fire,  gave  to  his  friends  as  the  last  treasure  with  which  he 
parted  a  small  fragment  which  he  had  worn  next  his  heart, 
of  the  shirt  which  Ignatius  wore  in  the  hard  penances  of 
the  cell  at  Manresa. 

The  radical  and  central  virtue  of  the  system  which 
Ignatius  gave  to  his  order  is  Jnwiility.  Upon  this  he  based 
all  other  Christian  graces.  Even  the  practical  rule  of 
obedience  must  grow  from  this  to  contain  any  merit  for 
him  who  observes  it.  He  counted  that  obedience  which 
was  only  the  submission  of  a  reluctant  will  to  superior 
strength  as  of  no  moral  worth.  It  must  come  always  from 
a  true  humiliation  of  the  mind,  the  heart  and  the  will. 
His  sharpest  rebukes  and  his  hardest  penance  were  for 
those  who  paraded  their  holiness  or  claimed  honor  for  it. 
He  would  not  tolerate  any  boasting  about  success,  any 
religious  pride.  Some  of  his  followers  were  sent  to  the 
courts  of  kings,  but  not  as  to  any  more  honorable  station 
than  with  the  heathen  tribes.  Though  he  contrived  so 
skillfully  the  plan  of  the  order  that  it  should  be  sure  to 
gain  influence  and  power,  to  win  souls,  and  secure  for  the 


LOYOLA.  317 


truth  a  favorable  hearing,  yet  he  dreaded  a  season  of  too 
great  prosperity,  and  was  accustomed  to  say  that  it  would 
be  sad  for  the  brethren  when  they  ceased  to  be  persecuted. 
As  the  perfection  of  an  artist  is  to  conceal  his  art,  so  the 
perfect  Jesuit  virtue  conceals  its  own  humility.  To  reach 
the  spiritual  state  one  must  become  so  humble  that  even 
one's  own  heart  becomes  accustomed  to  humility  so  far 
that  it  does  not  notice  the  virtue. 

Probably  the  world  never  saw  a  more  extraordinary  in- 
stance of  the  study  and  practice  of  this  virtue  than  in  the 
case  of  Ignatius  Loyola.  He  differed  from  the  old  as- 
cetics in  this,  that  whereas  they  sought  the  admiration  of 
the  multitude  for  their  austerities,  he  courted  the  ridicule 
of  men  for  his  follies.  He  studied  to  gain  the  contempt 
of  men,  so  far  as  he  might  without  compromising  his  in- 
fluence for  good.  He  would  change  his  method  of  self- 
humiliation  when  he  saw  too  much  attention  drawn  to  the 
method.  His  hardest  mortifications  were  the  most  private. 
The  tattered  peasant's  garb  in  which  he  began  his  spiritual 
experiences,  he  exchanged  afterwards  for  a  decent  robe,  and 
men  could  not  see  in  the  grave,  reserved  countenance  of 
the  solitary  priest  who  halted  along  the  streets  of  Rome, 
the  traits  of  that  menial  service  he  was  every  day  per- 
forming. Few  have  ever  been  so  favored  with  celestial 
visions,  with  the  visits  of  angels,  with  the  private  consola- 
tions of  the  Son  of  God  and  his  holy  mother.  Yet  only 
his  nearest  friends,  and  they  but  sparingly,  were  privileged 
to  know  of  these  privileges.  They  were  withheld,  lest 
any  might  think  their  subject  greater  than  his  brethren. 
With  a  will  as  stern,  and  a  soul  as  intolerant  as  that  of 
Luther,  Loyola  never  aimed  to  exalt  himself  in  the  eyes 
of  his  brethren.  He  was  distressed  by  their  praises,  he 
thanked  them  when  they  dared  to  rebuke  him.  When  the 
charitable  were  moved  to  leave  their  property  or  bring 
their  gifts  to  the  treasury,  he  rejoiced  in  it  as  an  evidence 
of  divine  love.  But  no  gifts  would  he  accept  for  himself 
more  than  the  simple  requisites  for  food  and  raiment. 
The  head  of  the  Society  of  Jesus  must  be  as  his  Master 
before,  poor  and  friendless,  and  hungry,  feeding  only  on 
the  bread  of  life  and  through  sweet  communion  with  his 
Father  in  heaven.     The  title  which  he  gave  his  followers 


3i8  LOYOLA. 


was  "this  least  society,"  and  his  own  favorite  device  was, 
"  To  the  greater  glory  of  God." 

The  Society  of  Jesus  was  the  first  religious  order  since 
the  time  of  the  Apostles  which  had  been  organized  on 
a  truly  philanthropic  basis.  Love  to  God  here  could 
not  prove  its  sincerity  except  in  practical  love  to  man. 
The  proper  charter  of  the  society  was  that  closing  text  of 
the  Saviour's  word,  "Go  and  teach  all  nations  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  and  Son  and  Spirit."  And  herein  it  proved 
a  strong  bulwark  against  the  Protestant  movement.  It 
had  a  more  directly  humane  end  than  the  preaching  of  the 
Reformers.  It  tried  not  to  convince  men  of  doctrines  so 
much  as  to  convert  their  souls,  not  to  reform  their  opinions 
so  much  as  to  educate  them  for  life  eternal.  Luther  and  his 
friends  gave  themselves  to  the  emancipation  of  the  human 
mind  from  the  trammels  of  worldly  subtlety  and  error. 
Loyola  and  his  brethren  labored  to  subjugate  the  human 
heart  to  the  simple  rules  of  the  Christian  life.  Luther 
spoke  to  men  as  Jesus  to  the  Samaritan  woman  about  the 
true  spiritual  worship,  or  to  Nicodemus,  of  the  new  birth 
in  faith.  Loyola  urged  upon  them  the  answer  of  Jesus 
to  the  young  ruler  and  showed  them  the  way  of  salvation. 
On  the  two  great  commandments  of  love  to  God  and  one's 
neighbor  hung  all  his  law  and  prophecy.  Luther  was 
zealous  in  propagating  his  truth,  but  his  zeal  was  the  zeal 
of  controversy ;  he  would  send  out  his  opinions  to  men 
because  they  were  new,  fresh,  and  antagonistic.  Loyola 
was  a  propagandist  of  the  most  ancient  faith.  He  had  no 
controversy  but  with  worldly  souls  sin-blinded  and  corrupt. 
He  sent  his  disciples  to  preach  the  word  of  reconciliation, 
"good  tidings  of  great  joy." 

The  great  doctrine  of  the  Reformation  was  Justification 
by  Faith.  Whoso  could  comprehend  this,  might  find  the 
grace  of  God.  Whoso  heartily  believed  this  was  not  far 
from  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  great  precept  of  the 
Society  of  Jesus  was  the  duty  of  penite7ice.  Whoso  could 
feel  this,  might  enter  into  the  new  life  of  the  spirit.  Whoso 
was  filled  by  this  feeling  was  already  crowned  with  the 
glory  of  life  eternal.  Luther  explained  that  process  by 
which  man,  nothing  in  himself,  becomes  everything  in  the 
strength  of  Christ.     Ignatius  enforced  that  necessity  by 


LOYOLA.  319 


v/hich  the  sinner  must  see  that  Christ  makes  him  strong 
only  through  his  own  weakness.  The  first  showed  man 
the  avenue  to  redemption  through  a  free  and  searching 
love  of  truth,  the  second  showed  man  the  way  to  hohness 
in  a  deep  self-abasement  and  submission.  The  one  en- 
couraged the  feeling  among  brethren  of  personal  liberty, 
no  man  might  control  the  faith  or  worship  of  his  brother. 
The  other  enjoined  the  constant  sense  among  brethren  of 
dependence  on  each  other  and  all  together  on  God,  no 
man  might  cherish  a  creed  or  use  a  ritual  but  such  as  God 
had  given  in  his  Church.  The  German  reformer  told  men 
of  their  rights,  reminded  them  of  their  manhood.  His 
rival  in  the  new  society  told  men  of  their  needs,  reminded 
them  that  they  were  all  children  of  the  Church  and  the 
Saviour.  The  influence  of  the  Reform  could  train  the 
poor  scholar  that  he  should  be  a  champion  of  the  Bible  in 
the  halls  of  debate  and  the  courts  of  princes,  that  he 
should  die  a  martyr  to  his  unbending  creed.  The  Jesuit 
theory  could  subdue  the  pride  of  birth,  and  take  from  the 
very  palaces  of  kings  those  who  should  carry  the  practical 
Gospel,  the  name  and  life  of  Jesus,  into  the  homes  of  the 
lowly,  and  live  a  long  life  of  martyrdom  that  the  poor 
heathen  might  find  Christ's  full  salvation.  Luther  taught 
that  the  truth  of  God  is  the  object  of  the  life  of  man,  that 
there  is  no  higher  work  than  to  find  and  defend  this  truth. 
But  Loyola  declared  that  the  highest  work  of  man  is  to 
love  God  and  serve  him  ;  that  so  his  truth  is  revealed 
without  man's  seeking.  The  spirits  which  came  to  Luther 
were  demons  of  the  mtellect^  disturbing  his  reason,  and 
vexing  the  balance  of  his  mind.  He  drove  them  away 
with  his  inkstand  and  his  copy  of  the  Epistles.  The 
spirits  which  came  to  the  Catholic  Saint  were  angels  of  the 
aff^ections,  sweet  messengers  of  God,  beckoning  him  up  to 
join  with  the  heavenly  hosts.  He  heard  their  voices,  he 
saw  their  light  when  he  knelt  before  the  crucifix,  and  read 
the  words  of  the  Saviour  of  men.  Both  prized  the  office 
of  prayer.  Both  used  it  habitually,  spending  nights  and 
days  in  its  earnest  pleading.  Both  enjoined  it  as  the 
chief  of  duties  upon  their  disciples.  But  with  the  Span- 
iard prayer  was  to  humble  the  spirit  to  a  sense  of  its  own 
poverty,  till  it  should   welcome  the   aid  of  the   heavenly 


320  LOYOLA. 


powers,  while  with  the  Saxon  it  was  to  fortify  the  soul  that 
it  might  stand  alone  and  fight  with  the  powers  of  evil. 
Both  were  fond  of  the  imagery  of  warfare  and  wrote  much 
about  the  Church  militant.  But  the  one  showed  how  the 
officers  might  best  lead  their  hosts  to  victor3%  while  the 
other  showed  how  the  ranks  of  the  armies  should  bear 
themselves  under  the  great  leadership  of  Christ. 

There  is  strong  temptation  to  carry  this  parallel  farther, 
but  I  dare  not  try  any  longer  your  patience.  Perhaps 
enough  has  been  already  said,  even  if  loosely  and  imper- 
fectly, to  give  you  an  idea  of  Ignatius  and  his  system.  I 
had  hoped  to  add  some  sketches  of  the  chief  of  his  com- 
panions and  successors ;  of  Francis  Xavier,  the  most 
wonderful  of  all  Christian  missionaries,  whose  journeys 
in  the  service  of  his  Master  reached  to  three  times  the' 
circuit  of  the  globe,  whose  knightly  graces,  ^.nd  large 
culture,  and  sw^eet  affections  were  all  consecrated  to  the 
Gospel  work,  wdth  a  quite  miraculous  constancy,  to  whom 
God  gave  as  with  a  continual  Pentecost  the  gift  of  tongues, 
so  that  China  and  Japan,  and  the  Isles  of  the  sea  could 
hear  from  his  lips  while  he  was  still  a  stranger  on  their 
shores,  the  word  of  God  in  their  native  speech,  in  wdiose 
labors  fact  outruns  even  Catholic  fancy,  and  whose  seven 
hundred  thousand  converts  need  no  embellishment  of 
angels  to  complete  the  sublimity  of  the  picture  of  his  life ; 
of  James  Laynes,  the  second  general  of  the  order,  whose 
rare  acumen,  whose  vast  learning,  whose  mastery  of  all 
the  arts  of  the  sophist  and  the  debater  enabled  him  to 
reduce  to  a  technical  system  the  great  designs  of  the 
founder  of  the  fraternity  and  to  control  the  creed  of  the 
Church  for  all  future  time  by  his  presence  and  eloquence 
in  the  Council  of  Trent,  an  overmatch  there  for  legates 
and  Cardinals ;  and  of  Francis  Borgia,  the  third  general 
of  the  order,  wdio  brought  the  pride  of  royal  descent,  the 
accomplishments  of  chivalry,  the  patrimonies  of  princely 
estates,  the  memories  of  love,  and  the  experience  of  glory, 
all  as  an  offering  to  this  new  crusade;  who,  whether  as 
husband  or  courtier,  as  priest  or  warrior,  in  the  discipline 
of  the  cell,  or  in  argument  with  an  emperor,  alike  aston- 
ished and  charmed  all  who  listened  to  his  eloquence  or 
beheld  his  fervor,  who  organized  the  schools  of  Jesus,  so 


LOYOLA.  32  T 


that  the  thought  of  Loyola  was  made  clear  to  the  infant 
mind  of  all  Catholic  lands  ;  of  all  these  I  had  hoped  to 
give  at  least  the  characteristic  outline  ;  to  say  something 
also  of  the  progress  of  the  order  and  its  influence  upon 
the  civilization  of  the  world,  to  show  how  its  purity  of 
purpose  had  been  frustrated  by  the  vice  of  its  principle, 
how  it  had  come  to  be  everywhere  the  manager  of  intrigue 
and  the  ally  of  despotism,  the  servile  tool  of  arbitrary 
kings  and  arrogant  popes,  how  the  manlier  virtues  have 
faded  always  beneath  its  shadow,  and  the  symmetry  of 
Christian  character  has  been  blighted  bv  its  touch,  how  it 
has  hindered  everywhere  the  progress  of  thought,  and 
separated  art  and  science  fatally  from  the  affairs  of  re- 
ligion, how  adopting  deceitfully  the  manners  and  dress  of 
the  world,  it  has  infected  the  world  with  the  subtle  poison 
of  its  false  morality,  till  the  name  Jesuit  has  come  to  de- 
scribe one  who  can  compromise  all  truth,  and  excuse  the 
violation  of  all  faith,  and  teach  men  a  Gospel  never  taught 
by  the  Redeemer. 

Loyola  saw  in  his  life-time  the  beginning  of  his  vision 
revealed  ;  twelve  provinces,  a  hundred  colleges,  and  a 
mission  reaching  over  two  hemispheres,  were  reckoned  on 
his  register  before  he  was  called  awav.  He  saw  its  zeal, 
its  vitality,  its  sure  success.  Had  he  prophecy  also  of  its 
departures  from  the  precepts  of  Jesus  ?  Could  he  see 
that  the  time  would  come  when  it  should  be  exoelled  from 

L 

Catholic  kingdoms  and  even  the  holv  Pontiff  should  con- 
sent  to  its  suppression,  when  its  cunning  should  be  the 
fear,  and  its  crimes  the  shame,  even  of  the  city  of  its  na- 
tivity, when  the  brethren  of  the  Jesuits  should  share  the 
stigma  of  the  Jews  and  be  hunted  from  land  to  land  along 
with  the  hated  race  of  Abraham?  No  such  vision  dis- 
turbed the  last  hours  of  the  life  of  Ignatius.  His  life  of 
labor  closed  so  peacefully  that  few  knew  when  he  died. 
True  to  his  principle  of  humility,  to  the  last  he  would 
make  no  complaint  and  ask  no  relief.  He  wanted  no  re- 
nown of  a  saintly  departure,  and  though  he  felt  his  strength 
decaying,  and  heard  the  summons  of  the  death-angel,  he 
called  no  brethren  to  his  death-bed,  and  sought  no  friendly 
hand  to  smooth  his  pillow.  He  gave  no  orders  about  his 
funeral,  named  no  successor,  but  died  like  a  common  man. 
21 


322.  LOYOLA. 


His  body  rests  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Casa  Professa  at 
Rome.  There  is  a  silver  shrine  beneath  the  altar,  his 
bones  are  daily  shown  to  the  faithful,  and  before  that 
shrine,  blazing  with  gold  and  jewels,  adorned  with  the 
statue  of  the  saint,  the  knees  of  countless  myriads,  pray- 
ing there  for  his  powerful  intercession,  have  worn  away  the 
marble  pavement. 


-SI".  CHARLES  BORROMEO.  323 


XIII. 

ST.    CHARLES    BORROMEO. 

A  PROMINENT  divine  of  one  of  our  cities  who  now  graces 
in  his  own  person  the  Episcopal  chair,  happened  in  an 
after-dinner  speech  to  let  fall  the  incautious  remark  that 
there  could  be  "  no  Church  without  a  bishop."  And 
speedily  a  controversy  arose  in  the  religious  and  secular 
prints  which  for  three  months  alternately  amused  and 
amazed  those  not  wonted  to  the  style  of  ecclesiastic  war- 
fare. The  controversy  was  silenced  only  when  it  passed 
from  an  abstract  to  a  practical  question,  when  it  began  to 
bear  upon  sensitive  points,  and  to  suggest  uncomfortable 
but  undeniable  facts  of  contemporary  religious  history, 
when  it  slid  into  the  thesis  that  there  can  be  no  living 
Christian  Church  where  the  bishop  is  not  a  decent,  vir- 
tuous, and  pious  man.  This  would  have  been  a  delicate 
theme  to  argue,  and  the  public  debate  was  adjourned  by 
mutual  consent.  And  this  lies  beneath  all  discussion 
about  the  rights  of  spiritual  lordship.  One  unworthy  to 
rule  will  hardly  sustain  his  claim  by  the  show  of  his 
Episcopal  lineage  or  by  the  pretence  of  a  transmitted 
sanctity  by  the  laying  on  of  prelatical  hands.  But  to  the 
true  apostle,  to  the  overseer  of  the  Church  who  joins  the 
zeal  of  Peter  to  the  love  of  John,  earnest  believers  always 
submit  and  defer,  whether  or  not  he  claim  the  authority  of 
an  anointed  bishop.  His  right  enters  not  into  controversy. 
His  yoke  the  Church  is  glad  to  wear,  and  only  by  such  as 
he  and  not  by  any  arrogance  of  Church  assumption  will 
the  ancient  theory  be  upheld  of  the  need  of  the  bishop's 
office. 

The  theory  is  that  the  bishop  is  at  once  the  wisest, 
purest,  and  holiest  of  pastors,  chosen  among  the  rest  for 
his  superior  ability  and  superior  sanctity,  to  rule  not  only, 
but  to  guide  by  word  and  by  character  the   Churches  of 


324  ST.  CHARLES  BORROMEO, 

his  chars^e.  And  this  theory  is  still  maintained  even  in 
our  own  land  in  defiance  of  the  verdict  of  more  than  one 
Diocesan  Council.  It  is  not  even  here  necessary  that  a 
bishop  should  be  honest,  temperate,  or  pure,  to  retain  his 
rank  and  title.  But  in  the  age  of  the  Reformation,  there 
was  no  theory  of  piety  or  virtue  as  essential  to  the  sacred 
office.  A  bishop  was  not  expected  to  be  holier  than  other 
men  of  his  rank  and  birth.  There  was  no  reserve  asked 
of  him  of  any  pleasure,  or  any  taste.  He  might  live  as 
he  chose,  he  might  feast  like  a  Sybarite,  spend  like  a 
prince,  or  swear  like  a  pirate,  wear  the  dress  of  a  courtier, 
or  hoard  the  revenues  of  a  banker.  He  was  not  required, 
often  not  expected,  to  dwell  in  his  diocese,  or  to  know  by 
name  his  subordinate  priests.  And  the  Council  of  Trent 
could  not  be  forced  to  make  residence  obligatory,  though 
urged  to  do  so  by  more  than  one  royal  demand.  Nay, 
even  the  preliminary  of  ordination  was  not  essential,  and 
it  happened  sometimes  that  the  archbishop  of  the  richest 
sees  was  not  a  priest  or  a  deacon,  or  a  monk,  and  had  no 
consecrating  power.  As  in  Thibet,  the  grand  Lama  is 
frequently  a  child  of  tender  years,  so  Europe  in  the  six- 
teenth century  was  compelled  to  recognize  in  beardless 
youths  the  lawful  overseer  of  great  Christian  provinces. 
Promotion  to  Episcopal  station  came  not  from  the  free 
choice  of  presbyters  and  laymen,  but  from  the  Pope's 
nomination,  and  every  new  occupant  of  St.  Peter's  chair 
was  expected  to  enrich  his  family  with  the  goods  and 
honors  of  all  vacant  sacred  offices.  The  one  apostolic  in- 
junction that  the  chief  bishop  of  the  Church  regarded,  was 
to  take  good  care  of  his  own  household. 

In  no  department  was  reform  in  the  Church  more  need- 
ful than  in  its  ecclesiastic  life.  The  Christian  world 
craved  more  examples  of  practical  holiness  than  new  evi- 
dences of  soundness  in  faith,  earnestness  of  zeal,  or  con- 
stancy in  prayer.  Men  asked  for  a  bishop  who  should 
truly  instance  to  them  the  proper  spirit  of  his  office ;  who 
should  restore  the  almost  forgotten  Apostolic  type  of 
clerical  life  ;  who  should  show  how  the  sacred  character 
might  dignify  the  sacred  office,  and  how  real  worth  might 
wear  the  honors  of  the  Church.  They  wanted  the  spec- 
tacle  of  a  consistent  and   manly   Christian  life,  in  which 


ST.  CHARLES  BOlillOMEO.  325 


there  should  be  no  eccentricity,  no  blaze  of  novelty,  but 
only  the  use  and  practice  of  common  duties.  Ig^natius 
was  indeed  a  saint,  but  he  was  the  austere  founder  of  a 
mysterious  brotherhood,  and  came  not  in  contact  with  the 
multiplied  duties  and  relations  of  men.  Theresa,  too,  was 
holy  among  women,  but  her  holiness  was  of  the  cloister, 
and  a  Spanish  nun  could  not  show  priests  what  to  do, 
though  she  might  teach  them  how  to  pray.  In  the  solemn 
decrees  of  Trent,  the  faithful  might  rejoice  that  the  Rock 
foundations  of  religious  truth  were  laid  again.  What  they 
waited  for  now  was  for  priests  of  unstained  robe  and  celes- 
tial bearing,  to  break  to  them  at  the  new  altar  the  bread 
of  life,  for  a  tread  and  voice  along  the  choir  that  should 
consecrate  again  the  renewed  house.  And  the  signal  in- 
stance  of  this  was  given  when  Charles  Borromeo  wore  the 
cardinal's  purple,  and  filled  the  pastor's  office. 

It  is  a  pleasant  task  to  review  a  life  so  beautiful,  to  de- 
scribe character  so  almost  faultless  as  that  of  this  eminent 
Saint.  Rare  in  Christian  history  is  a  spiritual  temper  so 
finely  balanced,  a  practical  wisdom  so  chastened  by  piety 
and  love.  No  word  of  detraction  has  been  uttered  con- 
cerning him  either  by  Protestant  prejudice  or  Catholic 
envv.  With  singular  consent,  the  extremest  zealots  of 
party  stop  to  praise  this  good  man  who  belonged  to  no 
party  but  that  of  Christ.  He  illustrates  for  us  in  a  more 
familiar  way  than  Loyola's  society  the  union  of  a  life  of 
labor  and  prayer.  He  offers  a  more  graceful  sacrifice  of 
noble  birth  and  knightly  tastes  to  the  duties  of  the  pastoral 
office  than  the  regal  Borgia,  changing  the  hopes  of  a  Span- 
ish throne  for  the  deep  humiliation  of  a  Jesuit's  vows. 
His  is  one  of  the  few  ecclesiastical  lives  which  even  in 
this  nineteenth  age  are  fit  to  be  taken  as  models  of  duty, 
of  devotion,  of  true  efficiency.  If  Luther  had  delayed 
for  a  score  of  years  his  sojourn  in  Milan,  he  would  have 
wept,  not  tears  of  bitterness  but  tears  of  joy,  at  the  feet 
of  this  disciple  of  Christ.  If  such  as  he  had  gone  legate 
into  the  Saxon  land,  no  subtlety  of  Wittemberg  monks, 
and  no  schemes  of  ambitious  princes  could  have  matched 
the  persuasion  of  his  sanctity.  If  his  advice  had  been 
followed  in  the  quarrel  with  Henry  of  England,  that  strong 
outpost  of  faith   would    not  have  been   broken  from   the 


326  ST.  CHARLES  BOllROMEO. 

Holy  See,  and  the  first  power  of  the  world  might  uphold 
a  universal,  in  place  of  a  merely  national  Church.  If  he 
had  made  that  pastoral  journey  through  the  valleys  of 
Switzerland  a  few  years  earlier,  Calvin  had  not  then  be- 
come the  spiritual  tyrant  of  Geneva,  and  no  Puritan 
exodus  had  secured  to  freedom  and  faith  the  shores  of  an 
unknown  continent. 

The  impulse  has  been  warm  within  me  as  I  have  studied 
the  life  of  Charles  Borromeo,  to  translate  those  two  an- 
tique volumes  in  which  Godeau,  Bishop  of  Venice,  has 
recorded  so  eloquently  what  the  Saint  was  and  what  he 
did.  And  it  is  hard  to  limit  to  the  hour  of  a  single  lecture 
the  just  survey  of  so  lovely  a  life.  I  cannot,  at  any  rate, 
dwell  upon  those  early  forming  influences  in  which  the 
biographers  of  great  and  holy  men  delight  to  show  the 
prophecy  of  the  future  of  their  heroes  ;  or  show  here  what 
hereditary  graces  may  have  come  to  St.  Charles  through 
the  counts  of  Avona,  of  whom  his  father  bore  the  insignia, 
or  through  the  great  race  of  the  Medicis,  of  which  his 
mother  was  a  daughter.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  both 
these  parents  were  better  than  their  lineage,  that  Count 
Gilbert  Borromeo  could  set  before  his  son  the  example  of 
a  ruler  so  faithful  that  the  Emperor  Charles  V  multiplied 
his  trusts,  so  prayerful  that  his  knees  became  hardened  by 
much  kneeling  in  the  little  chapel  which  he  had  built,  so 
compassionate  that  the  orphans  of  his  tenants  all  called 
him  their  father,  and  so  constant  in  almsgiving  that  he 
never  ate  a  meal  till  the  poor  had  received  some  charity 
from  his  hand,  that  none  named  the  mother  but  to  praise 
her  for  that  sweet  domestic  fidelity  which  forgot  the  pride 
of  descent  in  her  single  care  that  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  her  house  should  grow  up  to  serve  Christ  in  his  Church. 
In  the  castle  of  Avona  the  religion  was  of  practice  and 
not  of  profession  merely,  and  as  the  family  sat  at  evening 
before  that  loveliest  of  Italian  landscapes,  looking  out 
upon  the  still  waves  of  the  Lago  Maggiore,  and  the  rich 
foliage  of  their  beautiful  island,  and  sang  there  the  Hymn 
to  the  Virgin,  Nature  might  join  with  parental  lessons  to 
teach  the  rudiments  of  the  religious  life. 

In  this  castle  of  Avona,  on  the  second  of  October,  1538, 
the  second  son  of  Count  Gilbert  Borromeo  was  born.     It 


ST.  CHARLES  BOHROMEO.  327 

was  the  feast-day  of  the  Holy  Angel  Guardians,  when 
Catholics  are  wont  to  call  to  mind  that  sentence  of  the 
Scriptures,  "he  shall  give  his  angels  charge  concerning 
thee."'  The  omen  of  his  birth  seemed  to  be  fulfilled  from 
the  first  in  the  tastes  and  tendencies  of  the  growing  child. 
He  loved  the  works  which  angels  might  choose.  He  was 
destined  from  the  cradle  to  service  in  the  Church.  His 
passion  for  the  holy  offices,  and  his  progress  in  religious 
studies  outstripped  the  diligence  of  his  father's  instruc- 
tion. The  boy  soon  exhausted  the  literary  privileges  of 
his  home.  But  more  remarkable  than  his  progress  in 
learninof  was  his  readiness  in  alms-givino^.  He  became 
the  steward  of  the  household  to  the  poor,  and  administered 
the  surplus  revenues  of  the  estate  in  a  manner  at  once 
generous  and  impartial.  In  the  University  of  Pavia, 
where  he  went  at  an  early  age  to  complete  his  education, 
he  was  marked  at  once  as  a  model  youth,  not  in  eloquence, 
for  he  was  slow  of  speech,  not  in  physical  grace,  for  his 
form  did  not  fit  him  for  athletic  amusement,  not  merely 
for  scholarship,  for  there  were  some  who  read  more  deeply 
in  ancient  lore,  and  divided  more  skilfullv  the  subtleties 
of  the  civil  and  canon  law ;  but  in  character,  in  meekness, 
self-denial,  firmness  ao^ainst  temptation,  strict  regard  for 
truth,  for  disinterestedness,  and  fervent  piety,  he  took  at 
once  the  highest  place.  All  haunts  of  vice  he  avoided  as 
the  pestilence ;  and  it  was  said  of  him  in  Pavia,  as  once 
of  Gregory  and  Basil  in  Athens,  that  he  knew  but  two 
streets  in  the  city,  one  leading  to  the  school  and  the  other 
to  the  church.  He  chose  for  his  companions  the  men  of 
noted  religious  principles,  and  taught  them  by  his  example 
as  no  precept  could  teach  them,  the  beauty  of  holiness. 

In  1558,  when  he  was  twenty  years  old,  the  death  of  his 
father  called  him  home  to  Milan.  It  would  be  pleasant  to 
relate  the  manner  in  which  he  discharged  the  trust  of 
settling  the  estates  of  his  family,  and  baffled  the  schemes 
of  selfish  agents  who  sought  to  draw  him  into  dishonesty 
and  profligacy ;  and  how  he  disposed  of  the  large  revenues 
of  two  abbe3^s  which  his  uncles  on  either  side  had  given 
him.  But  these  trusts  were  speedily  eclipsed  by  far  higher 
dignity  and  promotion.  Hardly  had  he  taken  his  doctor's 
degree    at    Pavia,    when    John  of    Medicis,    his    mother's 


328  ST.  CHABLES  BORROMEO. 

brother,  was  chosen  to  the  Papal  chair,  and  sent  for  him 
to  come  to  Rome.  A  Pope's  nephews  were  in  that  age  in 
the  way  of  highest  honor,  and  it  was  not  deemed  strange 
that  Charles  Borromeo  was  created  cardinal  and  sat  as  the 
Archbishop  of  his  native  province,  though  he  had  not  com- 
pleted his  twenty-second  year.  Youth  seemed  no  objection 
in  one  so  worthy.  Various  offices  of  trust  and  emolu- 
ment were  pressed  upon  him,  which  he  refused.  It  was 
rare  that  any  one  had  declined  to  be  Grand  Chamberlain, 
the  second  office  in  Rome,  and  if  Borromeo  accepted  the 
charge  of  grand  peiiitentiary^  it  was  for  the  chance  it  gave 
him  to  guide  the  discipline  of  the  Church  and  reform  its 
morals.  He  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  council,  with 
power  to  sign  all  decrees  in  the  name  of  his  uncle,  and  in 
fact  made  the  virtual  ruler  of  the  Papal  State.  If  he  did 
not  govern  the  church  absolutely  during  the  Pontificate  of 
his  uncle,  it  was  because  his  wise  counsels  were  sometimes 
overruled  by  the  more  worldl}''  plans  of  his  associates  in 
the  sacred  body. 

It  was  a  hard  position  for  one  so  young  to  occupy,  re- 
quiring a  weight  of  wisdom,  and  a  measure  of  discretion, 
far  beyond  the  years  of  one  fresh  from  college  life.  Yet 
the  duties  of  the  place  were  discharged  in  such  wise  that 
all  fears  were  disarmed  ;  and  even  disappointed  rivals  vied 
in  their  praise.  Accessible  to  all  classes  of  citizens  he 
had  good  words  for  those  who  needed  advice  and  sufficient 
j^ifts  for  those  who  needed  aid.  He  discourasred  bes^garv 
by  removing  the  tax  on  food  and  making  bread  plentiful 
and  cheap.  He  took  care  to  forestall  complaints  by  re- 
moving their  causes.  Insensible  to  flattery  from  others, 
he  loved  to  see  the  smile  of  gratitude  on  the  faces  of 
those  whose  wants  he  relieved,  and  whose  wrongs  he  re- 
dressed. He  thought  it  fit  to  keep  up  the  state  of  a  bishop 
and  a  prince  ;  and  none  who  went  to  his  sumptuous  feasts 
and  enjoyed  his  royal  hospitality,  could  complain  that  he 
degraded  his  rank  or  was  mean  in  his  style  of  life.  Yet 
there  was  no  sign  of  personal  indulgence.  The  seductions 
of  pleasure  could  not  corrupt  a  heart  early  filled  with  the 
love  of  God.  To  set  aside  all  chance  of  luxury,  the  Car- 
dinal became  a  man  of  labor,  wrote  with  his  own  hand  the 
dispatches   of  his  office   and   the  decisions  of  his  courts, 


ST.  CHARLES  BOliEOMEO.  3~9 

divided  liis  time  by  method,  took  hours  for  study,  and 
hours  for  prayer,  and  showed  to  the  dissolute  cardinals 
around  him  how  it  was  possible  to  be  at  once  a  magistrate, 
a  scholar,  and  a  saint  without  losing  the  society  of  the 
world  or  courting  any  cloistral  seclusion.  His  palace  be- 
came an  academy  of  letters  and  the  fine  arts,  and  his 
domestics  were  the  companions  of  his  exercises  of  elo- 
quence, poetry  and  song.  Rich  were  the  delights  of  those 
attic,  or  as  he  called  them,  Vatican  nights,  when  after 
the  fatigue  of  the  day's  complex  affairs,  the  wits  and  doctors 
of  Rome  met  in  the  library  of  the  young  Cardinal  to  hear 
him  read  from  Epictetus,  or  recite  the  sublime  passages  of 
Cicero  about  the  nature  of  the  gods  and  the  dignity  of 
old  age,  and  compare  the  style  and  spirit  of  Pagan  phil- 
osophy with  Christian  doctrines  and  duties.  Many  a 
future  dignitary  of  the  Church  learned  there  how  to  sepa- 
rate the  wheat  from  the  chaff  in  the  writings  of  classic 
ages,  and  what  portions  might  be  turned  to  Christian  uses. 
And  in  that  academy  was  taught  the  philosophy  of  life, 
which  would  temperately  use  its  good  things  for  the  service 
of  God  and  not  spurn  beauty  for  the  sake  of  sanctity. 

It  was  a  splendid  and  honorable  life  to  lead,  every  taste 
met,  every  want  gratified,  power  enoujrh  to  satisfy  ambi- 
tion, wealth  enough  to  prevent  the  greed  of  gain,  a  youth 
beginning  where  age  rarely  ends.  Yet  Borromeo  was  not 
quite  contented.  He  was  a  cardinal,  but  he  was  also  a 
bishop,  and  it  seemed  to  him  wrong  that  a  bishop  should 
dwell  separate  from  the  homes  of  his  people.  He  knew 
what  corruptions  abounded  in  the  churches  of  his  charge. 
He  knew  under  what  oppressions  the  people  were  groan- 
ing, and  it  seemed  to  him  wrong  to  be  living  in  luxury  at 
Rome  while  in  his  native  province  abuses  were  unchecked 
and  the  Christian  rites  were  profaned  by  their  ministers. 
True,  he  had  power  as  Papal  legate  to  exercise  discipline 
over  a  much  wider  dominion.  Not  the  States  of  the 
Church  alone,  but  Portugal,  Holland,  and  Switzerland 
were  made  subject  to  his  command  in  religious  things. 
But  the  empty  possession  of  power  could  not  satisfy  him. 
He  longed  to  be  not  the  head  of  a  court  merely,  or  the 
centre  of  a  brilliant  circle  but  the  true  pastor  of  a  tiock, 
the  shepherd  and  bishop  of  souls.     The  death  of  his  elder 


330  ST.  CHARLES  BOHROMEO. 

brother  Frederic,  which  occurred  in  1562,  increased  this 
desire.  His  heart  now  was  divided  between  duty  to  his 
aged  uncle  and  longing  to  dwell  with  his  kindred  and 
countrymen.  The  great  enterprises  which  he  ruled  from 
Rome  could  not  still  this  secret  longing.  Now  ha)3pily 
through  his  management,  the  protracted  labors  of  the 
Council  of  Trent  had  been  brought  to  their  close.  Colleges 
had  been  founded,  and  legates  sent  out  to  enforce  the 
sacred  decrees.  And  the  cardinal  determined  that  if 
he  could  not  dwell  with  his  people,  he  would  at  least  go 
and  see  them.  Before  his  going,  however,  he  prepared 
himself  by  ordination  to  fulfill  the  duties  of  the  priest- 
hood. For  until  now  he  had  been  a  ruler  of  the  Church 
without  the  right  even  of  an  humble  minister.  This  was 
not  a  step  quite  agreeable  to  his  friends.  The  honor  of  a 
knightly  house  seemed  to  rest  upon  him,  and  even  Pius 
IV,  whose  pride  of  descent  was  at  least  equal  to  his  zeal 
for  the  faith,  pressed  his  nephew  to  resign  his  religious 
offices,  to  marry,  and  maintain  as  a  secular  noble  the 
dignity  of  the  race  of  Medicis.  In  the  face  of  all  remon- 
strances, however,  Charles  bound  himself  to  the  altar  by  a 
solemn  vow,  and  henceforth  began  to  curtail  the  splendor 
of  his  life,  and  adopt  the  simpler  style  becoming  to  a 
priest.  He  was  willing  to  descend  in  spiritual  dignity. 
There  are  few  instances  on  record  of  cardinals  stooping 
to  the  office  of  the  priesthood,  fewer  even  than  of 
monarchs  abdicating  thrones.  And  bv  this  act  of  humilia- 
tion,  Borromeo  tacitly  rebuked  the  unjust  and  irregular 
manner  of  his  appointment. 

On  the  first  of  September,  1565,  with  a  retinue  of  the 
most  eminent  and  skillful  men  of  the  Church,  the  Cardinal 
set  out  on  his  visit  to  his  native  city.  The  fame  of  his 
coming  had  gone  before  him,  and  all  along  the  way  the 
monks,  the  nobles  and  the  populace  came  together  to  wel- 
come one  who  bore  not  only  the  high  authority  of  a  Papal 
Nuncio,  but  brought  with  him  such  precocious  sanctity. 
On  Sunday,  the  twenty-third,  he  entered  Milan,  amid  ac- 
clamations and  blessings,  beneath  triumphal  arches  and 
windows  garlanded  and  public  buildings  hung  with  sacred 
emblems.  The  patron  saint  of  that  ancient  city  seemed 
now  restored  to  their  prayers  and  the  people  shouted  that 


ST.  CIIARLES  BOBROMEO.  331 


Ambrose  was  risen  again  in  Milan.  The  most  aged  could 
hardly  remember  when  their  bishop  had  been  seen  in  the 
streets,  and  the  long  interval  of  eighty  years  seemed 
hardly  longer  than  the  one  thousand  which  had  passed 
since  the  great  Archbishop  died.  The  enthusiasm  rose  to 
its  height  when  the  young  Archbishop  ascended  the  cathe- 
dral pulpit  and  took  for  his  text  the  words,  "  with  a  great 
desire  have  I  desired  to  eat  this  passover  with  you."  The 
sermon  was  not  eloquent  by  the  rules  of  the  school,  but  it 
had  an  appeal  to  the  hearts  of  the  hearers  such  as  no 
brilliant  discourse  could  make.  It  was  their  bishop  preach- 
ing to  them.  It  was  the  great  Roman  Cardinal,  virtual 
ruler  of  three  kingdoms  and  heir  apparent  not  only  to  a 
temporal  sovereignty,  but  to  the  lordship  of  the  Christian 
world,  who  was  preaching  to  them  as  their  pastor.  Can 
we  wonder  that  the  simple  words  seemed  dictated  by  a 
special  inspiration  and  that  he  whom  men  pitied  in.  the 
Church  of  St.  Maria  Maggiore  at  Rome  for  his  timid  and 
halting  speech,  seemed  a  very  Apostle  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Milan. 

We  next  find  the  young  prelate  presiding  in  a  provincial 
council  of  his  diocese  over  a  most  dignified  assembly  of 
cardinals  and  bishops,  and  astonishing  all  by  his  majestic 
presence,  his  prudence,  his  comprehensive  grasp  of  the  great 
matters  of  discipline  and  the  singleness  of  his  zeal  for  the 
interests  of  religion.  Scarcely  is  this  over  when  he  is  attend- 
ing with  all  the  grace  of  a  courtier,  the  two  sisters  of  the 
Emperor  on  their  journey  through  Italy.  Then  we  see  him 
in  Rome  in  the  chamber  where  his  uncle  is  dying,  praying 
there  that  strength  may  be  given  to  the  aged  servant  of 
God  to  meet  the  common  trial  of  all  the  children  of  men. 
Holding  the  cross  above  the  sufferer,  *'  Most  Holy  Father," 
said  he,  "all  your  desires  and  thoughts  ought  to  be  turned 
towards  heaven.  Behold  Christ  crucified,  the  only  foun- 
dation for  our  hope,  our  mediator  and  advocate,  the 
victim  and  sacrifice  for  our  sins.  He  is  all  goodness,  all 
patience ;  his  mercy  is  moved  by  the  tears  of  sinners,  and 
he  never  refuses  pardon  to  those  who  humbly  ask  it." 
"One  more  favor  I  ask,"  said  he,  "in  addition  to  the 
many  that  you  have  showed  me,  greater  than  all  the  rest. 
It  is  that  you  will  lay  aside  all   thoughts  now  of  the  worlcj 


332  Sr.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO. 

and  your  office,  and  turn  your  mind  wholly  upon  the  great 
theme  of  your  own  salvation  and  prepare  your  soul  for 
your  last  passage."  Many  days  he  waited  at  the  bedside, 
speaking  words  of  cheer  and  counsel,  reading  from  the 
sacred  volume,  administering  the  last  sacraments  of  the 
Church,  and  rejoicing  in  that  Christian  death  of  the  Head 
of  the  Church  where  the  last  words  were  those  of  aged 
Simeon,  ''  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace." 

From  the  death  chamber  of  one  Pope  the  scene  changes 
to  the  mysterious  conclave  where  another  is  to  be  chosen. 
And  there  we  behold  him  who  had  just  closed  the  eyes  of 
a  beloved  uncle,  supporting  for  the  vacant  station  the 
hereditary  enemy  of  his  house  and  race,  sacrificing  all 
personal  affection,  all  family  feeling,  all  pride  and  ambi- 
tion to  his  sino^le  sense  of  the  need  and  the  grood  of  the 
Church,  overruling  the  schemes  of  princes,  and  baffling 
the  intrigues  of  interested  men,  that  Christendom  might 
have  the  ablest  ruler.  Gladly  would  Pius  V  have  kept  at 
his  court  one  on  whose  wisdom  he  might  so  well  rely,  but 
the  bishop  remembered  his  flock,  and  hardly  a  year  had 
passed  since  his  visit  to  them  before  he  went  to  dwell 
among  them.  It  was  a  reformins;  work  which  he  went  first 
to  do,  a  work  which,  beginning  in  the  purification  of  his 
own  soul,  should  extend  in  widening  circle  till  it  should 
reach  the  whole  bound  of  his  dominion. 

The  work  commenced  with  himself.  Self-denial,  absti- 
nence, were  virtues  which  he  would  teach.  They  were 
virtues  which  he  began  to  practise  in  a  novel  way.  He 
knew  well  how  to  labor.  He  learned  now  how  to  fast. 
Bread  and  water  with  a  few  herbs,  chestnuts  or  apples,  on 
the  feast-davs  of  the  Church,  became  the  rule  of  his  diet. 
One  meal  in  a  day  was  the  limit  of  his  indulgence.  In 
Lent,  dried  figs  supplied  the  place  of  the  customary  bread, 
and  in  Holy  Week,  by  bitter  peas,  he  commemorated  the 
mockery  of  the  Saviour.  Friends  remonstrated  with  him 
for  this  strange  temperance,  and  predicted  that  his  life 
would  be  shortened  by  it.  But  the  Cardinal  answered 
that  he  did  it  if  not  for  his  own  health,  at  least  for  the 
health  of  his  Church,  and  if  his  own  life  were  shortened 
by  it  others  might  be  saved  from  more  hurtful  luxury. 


ST.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO.  ZZZ 

It  became  a  proverb  to  call  long  abstinence  "Cardinal 
Borromeo's  remedy."  He  curtailed  the  hours  of  sleep 
and  was  wont  to  ask  "if  generals  could  in  their  warfare 
content  themselves  with  the  short  rest  which  they  might 
take  sitting,  should  not  a  bishop  engaged  in  warfare  with 
Satan  and  his  hosts,  do  at  least  as  much  ?  '^  He  inured 
his  body  to  privations  and  hardships  of  every  kind,  not 
like  some  ascetics  that  he  might  mortifv  the  flesh,  but 
rather  that  he  might  discipline  his  frame  for  the  trials  and 
exposures  of  his  station.  His  private  expenditures  were 
all  retrenched  and  only  enough  was  reserved  from  charity 
to  meet  the  bare  necessities  of  food  and  raiment  and  the 
decencies  of  hospitality.  He  would  not  even  have  a 
garden  to  his  house,  much  less  an  episcopal  palace.  "The 
garden  of  a  bishop,"  said  he,  "  is  the  Holy  Scripture  and 
his  proper  palace  is  an  eternal  house  in  heaven."  Even 
the  orliaments  of  his  ducal  house  were  put  out  of  sight, 
all  the  fine  paintings,  marbles,  trophies,  suits  of  armor, 
and  blazonrv.  He  wanted  evervthing  to  remind  him  not 
that  he  was  Count  of  Avona  or  heir  of  the  Medicis,  but 
that  he  was  bishop  of  Milan.  His  own  coarse  robe  of 
black  was  always  worn  under  his  priestly  vestures.  It  was 
so  coarse  they  say  once  a  beggar  refused  to  accept  it  in 
charity.  Even  the  art  which  was  the  passion  of  his  youth 
was  half-forbidden,  and  he  restricted  himself  to  the  music 
of  the  hymns  of  the  Church.  He  became  his  own  ser- 
vant, employing  his  dependants  only  in  those  duties  which 
were  for  the  service  of  others  or  of  the  Church,  and  doing 
for  himself  all,  even  the  most  menial,  duties. 

The  reform  which  he  began  with  himself,  where  it 
seemed  hardly  needed,  he  continued  in  his  household, 
where  it  was  more  important.  He  knew  that  the  best  evi- 
dence of  fitness  to  govern  abroad  is  good  discipline  at 
home.  His  domestics  were  men  fit,  if  occasion  called 
them,  to  be  teachers  and  priests.  They  had  constant  em- 
ployment, some  in  copying  manuscripts,  some  in  visiting 
the  sick,  some  in  helping  the  poor.  None  could  hope  for 
any  Church  preferment  or  any  favor  because  they  were  ser- 
vants of  so  high  a  Master.  The  only  offices  which  any 
might  hold  were  offices  of  duty  within  the  house.  There 
was  the  chief  steward,  and  the  chief  spiritual  prefect,  cham- 


334  ST.  CIIAIiLES  BORROMEO. 

berlains  to  watch  his  actions,  and  censors  to  reprove  his 
faults,  priests  to  hear  his  confessions,  and  deacons  to  read 
to  him  spiritual  books.  The  dress  of  all  was  to  be  modest, 
without  embroideries,  showy  colors,  jewelry,  or  any  mere 
secular  ornament.  They  were  allowed  to  bear  no  arms, 
to  have  no  private  instruments  of  music,  and  were  ex- 
pected to  fill  up  their  intervals  of  leisure  with  religious 
reading  and  conversation.  The  Cardinal  made  it  a  point 
to  know  every  one  by  name,  the  mind  and  heart  of  every 
one.  Often  they  were  surprised  in  the  evening  by  his  soft 
step  entering  their  chambers,  and  when  any  were  sick  he 
was  there  to  administer  help  both  to  body  and  soul.  In 
all  religious  offices  daily  prayer,  confession,  mass,  the  ob- 
servance of  holy  days,  feast  times  and  fast  times,  each, 
from  the  humblest  to  the  highest,  must  be  regular  and 
punctual.  The  poor  and  the  rich,  the  worldly  and  the 
pious,  were  forced  to  see  and  ready  to  confess  that  if  any- 
where the  sentence  of  Paul  of  a  "  church  within  the 
house"  were  realized  in  life  it  was  in  the  religious  house 
of  the  Cardinal  Borromeo. 

From  his  own  household  he  proceeded  to  seek  out  and 
reform  those  households  where  Catholic  faith  by  profession 
was  the  principal  treasure,  to  inspect  the  numerous  par- 
ishes, monasteries  and  nunneries  in  the  province  of  his 
religious  rule.  No  village  where  was  a  church,  a  convent 
or  a  school  was  left  unvisited.  The  hamlet  curate  was 
not  too  mean  for  the  archbishop  to  question  concerning 
his  svstem,  nor  was  anv  con£^re2:ation  of  monks  so  in- 
trenched  in  proscriptive  lawlessness  that  he  hesitated  to 
bring  them  to  an  even  rule  of  discipline.  Into  the  wildest 
and  most  secluded  parishes  he  penetrated,  where  the  light 
of  a  bishop's  countenance  was  quite  unknown,  journeying 
on  foot  at  hours  when  Italian  bishops  were  wont  to  sleep. 
He  made  however  no  visit  without  declaring  his  intention 
to  the  suffragan  bishop,  wishing  them  to  show  respect  to 
the  right  even  of  inferiors.  When  he  reached  a  village, 
his  custom  was  to  go  directly  to  the  Church  without  change 
of  raiment,  without  refreshment,  and  speak  from  the  pulpit 
the  words  of  his  errand.  His  acquaintance  with  the 
people  began  always  at  the  altar.  He  would  lead  their 
prayers  before   he   relieved   their  wants  or  rebuked  their 


ST.  CHARLES  BOlUiOMEO.  335 

sins.  He  was  always  the  guest  of  the  curate  of  the  par- 
ish, refusing  all  temptation  to  lodge  with  the  rich  or  noble, 
and  avoiding  the  occasion  of  any  scandal.  Where  the 
curates  were  poor  he  carried  his  own  provisions  with  him. 
His  observing  eye  detected  at  once  the  wants  and  the  de- 
fects of  the  sanctuary  and  the  pastor's  house.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  personal  charge  that  no  church  in  his  spiritual 
dominion  should  hinder  throusrh  anv  lack  or  abuse  the 
decent  worship  of  God.  He  examined  every  altar,  every 
ceiling,  every  pavement,  the  baptismal  font,  the  adjoining 
chapels,  the  robing  rooms  of  the  priests,  the  doors  and  the 
windows,  that  nothing  should  anywhere  be  found  out  of 
place,  broken  or  decayed,  that  no  sign  of  carelessness 
should  be  left. 

Painful  and  tedious  were  the  long  journeyings  which 
the  cardinal  was  forced  to  take  in  these  parochial  visits. 
But  they  were  pleasant  to  him,  as  showing  what  force  of 
faith  still  remained  in  the  humbler  ranks  of  the  people, 
and  bringing  him  into  nearer  acquaintance  with  the  various 
details  of  human  life.  Generally  his  visits  were  welcomed. 
When  he  came,  the  honor  of  such  a  presence  surprised 
them  ;  while  he  staid,  the  beauty  of  such  a  spirit  capti- 
vated more  and  more.  With  the  convents  his  task  of 
reform  was  not  so  agreeable  or  easy.  Long  impunity  had 
made  the  monks  of  some  orders  bold  in  their  profligacy. 
Discipline  with  them  had  relaxed  as  treasures  multiplied. 
The  pretence  of  sanctity  with  many  was  discarded,  and  in 
numerous  instances  the  whole  force  of  a  single  convent 
was  limited  to  a  provost,  who,  with  his  servants,  lived  like 
a  prince  upon  the  wealth  which  the  piety  of  former  ages 
had  gathered  there.  Especially  was  this  case  with  the 
order  of  the  Humiliati  which,  founded  some  four  hundred 
years  before,  had  now  ninety  monasteries  with  only  one 
hundred  and  seventy  monks  in  all.  In  dealing  with  these 
convents  the  cardinal  found  that  ready  acquiescence  was 
not  to  be  expected.  At  every  point  his  decrees  were  re- 
sisted. They  laughed  at  his  pietistic  canons.  They 
defied  his  commands.  They  barred  their  doors  against 
his  entrance.  They  appealed  to  the  Pope  against  his  in- 
vasion of  their  rights.  Their  gold  was  freely  used  to 
corrupt    his    officers.     All    that    slander  could    invent   or 


33^  ST.  CHARLES  BOB  ROMEO. 

malice  distort  concerning  his  character  and  life  was  freely 
circulated.  When  his  decrees  were  published,  some  of  the 
friars  ran  to  the  bells  and  sought  to  create  a  riot  in  the 
city.  Finding  all  their  measures  in  vain,  and  learning  that 
with  the  full  authority  of  the  Pope  the  reform  in  their 
convents  would  go  on,  the  profligate  would  be  expelled, 
and  the  houses  would  be  filled  onlv  with  men  of  decent 
life  and  living  piety,  they  determined  as  a  last  resort  to 
assassinate  this  contumacious  prelate.  Already  the  car- 
dinal had  been  exposed  to  an  attempt  of  this  kind  in  his 
controversv  with  the  canons  of  the  Colleg-iate  Church  of 
La  Scala,  where  the  cross  which  he  carried  was  shot  at  in 
the  verv  door  of  the  Church.  The  issue  of  this  outragfe 
had  been  that  the  lives  of  the  offenders  had  been  spared 
only  through  the  clemency  and  prayers  of  the  Cardinal,  in 
whose  heart  no  temper  of  revenge  seems  ever  to  have 
found  place.  But  the  scheme  of  the  monks  was  still  more 
daring.  Money  hired  even  a  priest  to  murder  at  the  altar 
the  bishop  who  prayed  there  for  his  enemies.  As  the  holy 
father  was  on  his  knees  in  the  chapel  at  the  hour  of  even- 
ing devotions  with  his  household  around  him,  and  the 
choir  chanting  those  words  of  Jesus,  "  Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid,"  the  sound  of  a  blun- 
derbuss rang  through  the  chapel,  the  music  ceased  and  the 
service  was  likely  to  end  in  consternation.  In  the  con- 
fusion the  assassin  fled.  But  the  cardinal  commanded 
them  to  resume  their  kneeling,  to  continue  their  prayers, 
and  the  service  was  finished  in  the  usual  manner.  Exami- 
nation then  revealed  a  marvellous  escape.  The  robe  and 
cassock  of  the  Cardinal  were  pierced  with  shot,  the  table 
hard  by  was  penetrated  deeply  in  several  places,  and  the 
ball  was  found  at  his  feet,  having  struck  the  socket  in  the 
middle  of  the  back  and  fallen  down  without  entering  the 
body,  leaving  only  a  slight  bruise  upon  the  surface  of  the 
bone.  The  people  called  it  a  two-fold  miracle,  a  miracle 
that  Providence  should  so  preserve  the  life  of  their  bishop, 
and  an  equal  miracle  that  he  so  calmly  should  meet  and 
suffer  the  outrage.  The  whole  city  was  aroused  at  once 
to  gratitude  and  vengeance.  The  murderers  were  quickly 
discovered  and  all  the  entreaties  of  the  good  cardinal 
could  not  hinder  their  execution.     The  order  of  the  Hu- 


ST.  CRABLES  BORROMEO.  337 

miliati  was  forever  abolished  and  the  revenues  which  ages 
had  accumulated  given  back  to  the  poor  from  whom  they 
came  in  the  beginning.  The  result  of  this  daring  crime 
was  a  warninsr  to  the  other  monastic  orders  ;  and  he  found 
no  more  resistance  in  his  efforts  to  restore  the  discipline 
and  purity  of  convent  life.  More  than  one  religious  order 
consented  to  recognize  him  as  their  spiritual  father,  and 
offered  themselves  to  serve  him  in  any  way  that  might  be 
for  the  salvation  of  souls.  He  had  a  harder  task  to  sub- 
ject the  nuns  to  his  rules.  The  self-willed  sisterhood  were 
not  so  readv  to  accept  a  system  which  required  them  to 
labor  as  well  as  pray,  and  his  exceeding  modesty  forbade 
him  to  press  his  suit  by  the  same  arguments  which  he 
used  with  the  other  sex.  But  patience  prevailed  at  last, 
and  the  fair  recluses  joined  with  the  rest  of  the  city  in 
praising  the  wisdom  and  virtue  of  the  ruler  whom  God 
had  sent  them. 

Next  to  the  convents  came  the  seminaries  of  teaching, 
from  the  great  Cathedral  chapter  down  to  the  parish 
schools.  The  cardinal  was  not  content  with  a  mere  ritual 
service  to  illustrate  the  influence  of  the  metropolitan 
Church.  It  was  grand  on  the  holy  days,  indeed,  to  show 
the  crowds  the  gorgeous  spectacle  of  the  mass  in  that 
Cathedral  which  stood  then,  as  it  stands  now.  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  world ;  and  he  had  too  much  filial  piety  to 
diminish  the  splendor  of  a  church  where  the  generations 
of  his  kniHitlv  ancestors  had  brou2:ht  their  gifts  and 
offered  their  prayers.  The  magnificence  of  worship  did 
not  fall  off  there  under  his  direction.  But  he  left  the 
choir  of  that  stupendous  edifice  a  marvel  of  wealth  as 
well  as  of  beautv.  The  service  of  no  Roman  Cathedral 
could  vie  with  the  mass  as  Borromeo  appointed  it  in  the 
Church  of  Milan. 

His  idea  of  a  metropolitan  church  however  was  that  it 
should  be  a  centre  of  light  and  truth  as  well  as  of  splendor. 
He  appointed  for  it  a  three-fold  system  of  instruction. 
Twice  in  the  week  were  lectures  in  divinity  to  be  read 
there  and  every  Sunday  a  sermon  was  preached.  This 
service  was  entrusted  to  a  distinsruished  theoloirian.  Then 
there  was  a  penitentiary  appointed,  whose  business  it  was 
to  hear  confessions  from  all  parts  of  the  diocese,  to  decide 
22 


338  ST.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO. 

cases  of  discipline  and  aViswer  questions  concerning  the 
duties  of  priests  and  curates.  A  third  office  was  given  to 
a  Doctor  of  Laws,  who  was  to  instruct  young  clergymen 
in  the  canons  of  the  Church.  Around  this  centre  in  the 
plan  of  the  Cardinal  were  grouped  the  colleges  of  theology 
and  law,  the  seminaries  of  rudimental  religion,  and  finally 
the  parish  schools.  The  number  of  these  schools  which 
he  founded  is  almost  incredible ;  seven  hundred  and  forty, 
with  three  thousand  and  forty  teachers,  and  forty  thousand 
and  ninety-eight  scholars  are  recorded.  Beside  these 
every  parish  priest  was  required  to  teach  the  children  of 
his  flock,  and  for  failure  in  that  duty  was  liable  to  forfeit 
his  office.  In  no  part  of  his  Episcopal  work  w^as  St. 
Charles  more  careful  than  in  this  training  of  the  young. 
He  believed  that  the  Church  had  a  right  to  all  children, 
and  that  all  children,  whether  in  lowly  or  noble  station, 
had  a  claim  upon  it  for  Christian  knowledge.  It  was  a 
heavy  sin  upon  his  heart  that  any  child  should  grow  up 
through  his  neglect  in  ignorance  of  the  truth  of  God. 

Next  to  reform  in  education  came  reform  in  criminal 
discipline.  In  spite  of  the  opposition  of  the  magistrates  the 
cardinal  insisted  upon  a  new  administration  of  the  prisons 
by  which  punishment  should  not  be  indiscriminate  or  wan- 
ton, but  should  be  proportioned  to  the  offence  and  the  ob- 
stinacy of  the  convicted  felon.  He  took  care  that  no  of- 
fender should  die  without  the  prayers  and  consolations  of 
the  Christian  Gospel.  He  sought  pardon  for  all  who  seemed 
truly  penitent.  He  established  an  order  of .  visitors,  w^ho 
should  bring  to  every  cell  daily  invitations  from  the  Sa- 
viour, and  went  himself  often  in  person  to  see  the  des- 
perate and  hardened  that  others  dared  not  visit.  He 
would  have  criminals  treated  not  as  wild  beasts,  but  as 
human  beings,  erring  and  guilty  indeed,  but  still  as  capable 
of  salvation  and  not  alien  from  the  love  of  God.  And  he 
sought  to  prevent  crime  by  drying  up  its  sources.  He 
would  gather  into  hospitals  the  classes  of  the  abandoned 
that  they  might  be  saved  from  a  worse  destiny  before  it 
was  too  late.  And  great  numbers  of  those  whom  society 
had  first  destroyed  and  then  deserted  blessed  in  him  their 
gracious  rescuer  from  infamous  death.  He  had  his  re- 
ligious police  to  watch  and  check  the  beginnings  of  crime. 


ST.  CHARLES  BOB  ROMEO.  339 

and  to  bring  all  who  were  tempted  into  the  circle  of  Chris- 
tian influence.  And  so  striking  was  the  change  that  his 
twenty  years  of  seryice  wrousfht  in  Milan  and  its  neisfhbor- 
hood  that  from  the  most  turbulent,  profligate,  ill-governed 
and  pauperised  city  in  Europe,  it  became  proverbial  for 
neatness,  safety  and  tranquillity.  Even  the  magistracy,  his 
foe  at  every  step,  thwarting,  hating  and  threatening  him, 
denouncing  his  interference  as  insolent  and  his  schemes 
as  ridiculous,  was  changed  through  his  agency  to  the  most 
admirable  of  municipal  bodies. 

And  never  had  the  poor  a  more  diligent  and  untiring 
friend.  No  sufferer  came  in  vain  to  the  Cardinal's  door. 
In  the  byways  of  the  city  his  messengers  sought  out  the 
distressed,  and  from  the  highways  and  hedges  they  came 
in  to  the  royal  feast.  Of  him  men  repeated  the  parable 
of  Job:  "When  the  ear  heard,  then  it  blessed  me,  and 
when  the  eye  saw,  it  gave  witness  to  me ;  because  I  de- 
livered the  poor  that  cried  and  the  fatherless  and  the 
helpless,  the  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish 
came  upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for 
joy."  No  treasure  did  he  count  his  own  so  long  as  there 
were  any  needy  in  the  sphere  of  his  benevolence.  The 
patrimonies  of  his  fathers  he  sold  and  distributed  in  alms. 
The  gifts  of  popes  and  nobles  went  to  feed  the  hungry 
and  clothe  the  naked.  When  forty  thousand  crowns,  the 
price  of  a  principality  in  Naples  which  he  sold,  were 
brought  to  him  he  said  that  a  bishop  ought  not  to  hold  in 
his  house  so  much  treasure,  and  sent  his  almoners  to  be- 
stow it  in  the  lowly  houses  of  his  flock.  In  one  day  it 
was  all  expended  ;  nor  would  he  rectify  an  error  of  two 
thousand  crowns  which  had  been  added  by  mistake.  The 
proceeds  of  his  brother's  estate  in  furniture,  jewels  and 
paintings,  amounting  to  thirty  thousand  crowns,  found  the 
same  honorable  use.  An  equal  sum  was  raised  by  the 
sale  of  his  own  effects,  in  a  season  of  special  distress. 
The  legacy  of  twenty  thousand  crowns  which  his  brother's 
widow  left  him  was  instantly  appropriated.  Two  hundred 
crowns  per  month  were  the  regular  sum  which  he  ordered 
his  steward  to  pay  to  the  poor  of  the  city,  but  that  amount 
was  but  a  fraction  of  what  he  really  gave.  He  came  to 
Milan  one   of  the   richest  prelates  in  Europe.     He  died 


340  ST.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO. 

almost  poor.  Yet  where  he  found  beggary  and  want,  he 
left  comfort,  thrift  and  gratitude.  If  the  palace  was  strip- 
ped of  its  ornaments,  the  lanes  and  alleys  were  tenanted 
bv  a  more  decent  class  and  mendicants  had  ceased  to 
swarm  in  the  public  places.  It  is  said  in  praise  of  the 
most  benevolent  man  in  New  England,  long  since  called 
away  from  his  works  of  beautiful  charity,  that  he  gave 
away  for  twenty  years  half  of  his  income.  But  of  St. 
Charles  Borromeo  it  is  recorded  that  in  twenty  vears  he 
gave  away  ten  times  the  amount  of  the  most  princely  for- 
tune. His  gifts  were  measured  not  by  his  increase  but  by 
the  needs  of  those  who  besought  him. 

Nor  was  his  care  for  the  poor  confined  to  the  supply  of 
their  temporal  needs.  He  counted  it  better  to  give  them 
the  bread  of  life  than  food  for  their  bodies,  and  he  was 
very  constant  to  watch  for  their  spiritual  welfare.  He 
did  not  turn  over  to  them  priests  of  the  inferior  sort,  or 
leave  them  to  the  dangers  of  heresy  without  able  protect- 
ors. He  set  in  the  most  ignorant  and  destitute  quarters 
men  to  teach  and  preach,  who  were  wise  to  discover  and 
interpret  the  true  interests  of  the  people  and  skillful  to 
apply  the  Gospel  to  their  condition.  The  most  retired 
valley  of  his  diocese  heard  a  Gospel  as  pure  as  that 
preached  in  the  cathedral  pulpit.  With  no  class  was  tiie 
Cardinal  so  severe  as  with  those  priests  who  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  remoteness  of  the  position  or  the  ignorance 
of  their  hearers,  to  neglect  their  proper  Christian  work. 
He  held  that  a  slothful  pastor  was  responsible  for  the 
errors  and  sins  of  his  flock,  and  indirectly,  too,  accounta- 
ble for  their  poverty,  inasmuch  as  ignorance  and  crime 
are  the  fruitful  source  of  indigence.  And  in  no  part  of 
his  visitations  was  he  a  more  scrupulous  observer  than 
where  nature  or  fortune  seemed  to  have  limited  the  privi- 
leges of  worshippers. 

And  in  his  spiritual  visitations  the  Cardinal  did  not 
confine  himself  to  the  proper  territory  of  Milan.  In  the 
cantons  of  Switzerland  he  also  found  work  and  welcome 
for  his  wholesome  reforms.  And  the  journeys  which  he 
made  through  the  Grisons  and  among  the  high  Alps  few 
pilgrims  even  in  that  age  dared  attempt.  He  traversed 
the  wildest  forests  and   the  most  dangerous  passes.     The 


ST.  CHARLES  BOlUiOMEO. 


341 


torrents  and  eternal  snows  could  not  hinder  him  from  his 
labor  of  love.  Days  long  he  went  tramping  over  the 
glaciers  and  the  rocks,  catching  in  the  crevices  a  foothold, 
hungry  and  thirsty,  yet  borne  along  by  an  invincible  cour- 
age, stopping  in  each  place  only  long  enough  to  care  for 
its  needs  and  learn  its  spiritual  state,  opposed  sometimes 
by  the  heretic  officials,  but  winning  them  always  by  his 
courtesy  and  moderation.  When  he  came  into  a  Protestant 
neighborhood  it  was  his  custom  to  go  first  to  the  Church 
and  prove  his  devotion  by  a  season  of  prayer.  On  a 
second  visit  which  he  made  to  the  wild  Alpine  regions  he 
had  to  deal  with  a  species  of  sorcery  which  had  spread 
there,  in  which  old  women  officiated  as  witches  in  chief, 
and  had  suffered  even  for  the  abominable  crime.  The 
good  sense  of  the  Cardinal  could  not  quite  conquer  the 
superstitions  of  the  people.  Nor  is  it  certain  that  he  was 
so  far  before  his  age  in  knowledge  as  to  doubt  that  the 
strange  phenomena  which  they  told  were  works  of  the 
Powers  of  Darkness.  An  Italian  priest  may  well  be  par- 
doned for  believing  what  an  English  judge  a  century  later 
confessed  to  be  a  hideous  crime.  But  certain  it  is,  that 
with  the  visit  of  St.  Charles  to  the  Grisons  and  his 
preaching,  the  sorcery  ceased,  and  no  more  executions  for 
witchcraft  shocked  the  people. 

The  passage  in  the  life  of  St.  Charles  which  has  been 
most  famous  in  history  and  which  the  genius  of  modern 
Italy  has  made  the  theme  of  its  finest  romance,  is  his  con- 
duct during  the  plague.  The  brilliant  colors  in  Mansoni's 
style  have  in  no  wise  exaggerated  the  heroism  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Milan  in  his  dealing  with  that  terrible 
scourge.  The  profane  sports  of  the  carnival  of  the  year 
1576  were  observed  with  unusual  zeal.  All  the  remon- 
strances of  the  Cardinal  could  not  hinder  the  nobles  and 
people  from  their  favorite  mummeries.  There  were  tour- 
naments in  the  public  square,  and  the  public  authorities 
witnessed  and  shared  in  the  general  license.  The  Holy 
Father  could  only  predict  the  wrath  of  God  upon  a  prepa- 
ration so  hideous  for  the  season  of  religious  fasting  and 
prayer.  He  was  at  Lodi  attending  a  funeral  service  when 
news  was  brought  to  him  that  the  plague  had  broken  out 
in  Milan,  that  the  governor  and  nobilitv  had  tied  and  that 


342  ST.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO. 

the  riotous  joy  of  the  people  was  changed  to  consterna- 
tion and  terror.  He  mounted  instantly  and  returned. 
Crowds  of  people,  wild  and  affrighted,  met  him  in  the 
streets,  and  "misericordia,"  "mercy,"  was  the  universal 
crv.  His  vicars  and  canons  crowded  round  him  and  urged 
him  to  depart  from  the  plague-stricken  city  and  save  his 
valuable  life.  He  answered  them  only  by  avowing  his 
resolve  as  a  faithful  pastor  to  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
flock  and  claimed  their  assistance  in  his  works  of  mercv. 
According  to  Catholic  custom  he  sought  to  propitiate  the 
Deity  by  an  act  of  public  penance,  and  three  times 
walked  through  the  streets  with  naked  feet,  and  ashes  on 
his  head  and  a  cord  about  his  neck,  bearing  in  his  hands 
the  crucifix,  at  the  head  of  a  grand  procession  of  penitents, 
with  all  public  m-^rks  of  the  deepest  sorrow.  He  preached 
continually  and  fasted  every  day.  He  went  through  the 
wards  of  the  hospital  praying  with  the  sick,  administering 
remedies,  and  composing  decently  the  limbs  of  the  newly 
dead.  No  house  in  the  most  infected  districts  was  omitted 
in  his  visit.  He  carried  the  holy  wafer  and  oil  into  the 
most  squalid  abodes,  that  no  one  should  die  without  the 
comforts  of  faith.  Contending  with  the  cow^ardice  of 
magistrates,  he  organized  the  heroic  priests  that  devoted 
their  lives  with  his  into  bands  which  should  do  the  work  of 
charity  and  attendance  on  the  sick  which  the  occasion 
called  for.  The  churches  and  the  episcopal  houses  were 
given  up  to  the  terrified  fugitives  from  the  infection.  By 
his  will  he  made  the  hospital  of  the  city  heir  to  his  estate, 
if  he  should  be  carried  off  with  the  rest.  His  plate  was 
melted  down  and  was  sold  with  his  furniture  to  buy  bread 
for  the  hungry  mouths  of  the  homeless.  Even  his  straw 
bed  was  given  up  and  he  slept  upon  a  board.  As  the 
plague  increased,  his  strength  seemed  miraculously  aided. 
Day  and  night,  on  horseback,  and  on  foot,  often  alone,  he 
went  about  on  his  errand  of  mercy.  When  the  neighbor- 
ing villages  caught  the  infection  he  was  there  to  advise,  to 
assist,  and  to  provide  for  Christian  burial.  Severe  were 
his  rebukes  to  those  who  tried  in  reckless  debauchery  to 
forget  their  danger.  Yet  when  these  were  attacked,  he 
was  at  hand  to  hear  their  confession  and  pardon  their 
sins.      The  danger  of  famine  came  to  increase  the  horror. 


ST.  CHARLES  BOBIiOMEO.  343 

Great  as  was  the  Cardinal's  charity,  his  private  stores 
among  so  many  were  but  as  five  loaves  to  five  thousand 
men.  But  if  he  could  not  repeat  the  Saviour's  miracle, 
he  found  means  in  a  way  almost  as  strange  to  open  the 
purses  and  hearts  of  his  people.  He  became  a  beggar  at 
the  gates  of  the  rich  and  opened  the  doors  of  luxurious 
houses  to  the  forsaken  and  destitute.  Sometimes  his 
heart  almost  sank  within  him  when  he  saw  how  every  day 
seemed  to  make  the  prospect  more  awful.  But  he  trusted 
in  God.  One  night  when  he  came  home  from  his  weary 
rounds,  hungry  and  worn,  he  found  no  morsel  of  bread  in 
the  house.  He  knew  not  where  to  turn.  The  charity  of 
all  his  friends  was  exhausted.  He  had  borrowed  until  he 
was  every  man's  debtor.  And  it  seemed  now  that  he  must 
die  with  his  people.  But  as  he  prayed  in  his  oratory,  a 
gentleman  came  there  with  an  offering  of  a  thousand 
crowns  from  the  chief  men  of  the  city.  God  so  answered 
his  prayers.  He  rose  refreshed,  and  before  he  slept  it  was 
spent  in  his  mission  of  mercy. 

Months  long  the  scourge  of  Milan  lasted,  and  ceased 
only  when  winter  came.  Seventeen  thousand,  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  of  them  ecclesiastics,  had  died  of  the 
pestilence.  Commerce  had  been  prostrated,  the  right  arm 
of  labor  paralyzed,  and  the  rich  city  was  poor.  But  the 
people  thanked  God  that  he  who  had  been  instant  for 
them  in  season  and  out  of  season,  whose  prayers  had 
turned  aside  the  anger  of  God,  whose  goods  had  been 
divided  to  their  hunger,  who  had  courted  hardships,  dan- 
ger, insult  and  humiliation,  that  he  might  save  them  from 
perishing,  so  young  and  yet  so  holy,  was  still  spared  to 
them.  From  all  sides  congratulations  came.  The  selfish 
Italian  Cardinals  could  hardly  comprehend  such  heroic 
devotion.  The  sternness  of  heresy  relented  at  such  an 
evidence  of  the  Christian  spirit  and  confessed  that  a 
Catholic  prelate  might  still  be  a  Christian  apostle.  The 
only  answer  to  these  praises  which  the  Cardinal  made  was 
to  profess  that  he  had  done  but  his  simple  duty,  that  he 
should  have  been  guilty  before  man  and  God  if  he  failed 
in  such  an  extremity  to  show  himself  the  shepherd  of  his 
flock. 

But  I  fear  lest   the  fascination   of  ihis   theme  may  lead 


344  ST.  CflABLES  BORROMEO. 

me  to  tire  you  by  too  numerous  details.     I  omit,  therefore, 
the   account  of  his  journeys   to  Turin   and   to  Rome,  the 
works  which   he  did,  and  the  honors  which  he  received  in 
those  cities,  to   add   only  a  general   view  of  his  character 
and  influence.      He  is  the  onlv  instance  that  I  have  found 
in  Christian   history  of  a  faultless   bishop,  not  faultless  as 
a  man,  but  faultless  in  his  office  as  a  priest  and  ruler  of  the 
Church.     He  had   the  ability  to  master  all  the  intricate 
duties   of  his  office,    and    the   patience   to   endure   all   its 
trials.     An   inflexible  firmness  tempered  by  an   unfailing 
charity,  a  prudence  which   waited  always  upon  most  fer- 
vent zeal,  a  practical  spirit,  keeping  him  from  the  excesses 
of  ascetic  piety,  a  heart  in  which  the  love  of  God  and  the 
love  of  brethren  were  beautifully  balanced,  all   fitted  him 
to  have  the  charge  of  the  Church  of  God.     He  preached 
as  a  bishop   should  preach,  ambitious  of  no  display,  seek- 
ing no  praise  for  originality  of  idea,  or  splendor  of  diction, 
not  striving  by  charm  of  voice  or  by  grace  of  style  to  win 
praise  to   himself,  nor  yet  thundering  in  their  ears  a  mes- 
sage of  terror,  but   always  as  if  he  were  breaking  to  them 
bread  at  the  altar.     His  words  were  simple,  slow,  weighty 
in  spiritual  wisdom,  lofty  in  religious  faith.     They  gained 
their  force  from  the   character  of  him   who  uttered  them, 
and   it  was  always  a  mystery  to  the   rhetoricians   of  Rome 
how  one  so  heavy  and  awkward   in   speech  should   draw 
such  crowds  to  his  preaching.     The  secret  of  it  was  that 
the  preaching  came   from  the  heart   and   life.     It  was  not 
the  eloquence   of  scholarship,  or  art.  or  even  of  vehement 
zeal   for  dogmas,  but   the   eloquence   of  a  tried  and   ex- 
perienced faith.     The  people  knew  that  their  bishop  loved 
them  and  would  lay  down   his   life  for  them,  knew  that  he 
had  sacrificed  for  them  rank,  wealth,  luxury  and  personal 
ambition  ;  that   he  lived  for  their  welfare.     It  was  enough 
for  them  that   he  had  refused  the  temptations  of  advance- 
ment at  Rome  to  come  and  be  their  pastor. 

The  true  bishop  aims  to  be  useful.,  not  to  be  great.  He 
is  set  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister.  And 
usefulness  was  the  first,  last,  and  only  end  of  the  life  of 
St.  Charles  Boiromeo.  To  this  he  gave  up  the  tastes  of 
his  station  and  even  the  impulses  of  his  piety.  This 
saved  him  first  from  the  office  of  a  senator,  and  afterward 


ST.  CHARLES  BOEROMEO.  345 


from  the  solitude  of  a  cloister.  He  was  never  weary  in 
doing  good,  and  he  had  the  fertile  mind  which  suggests 
continually  new  methods  and  occasions  of  benevolent 
action.  The  multiplied  duties  of  his  place  only  delighted 
him  the  more.  He  wanted  no  recreation  but  a  change 
from  one  philanthropic  work  to  another.  It  is  recorded 
that  in  all  his  twenty  years  of  Episcopal  service  he  never 
once  walked  or  rode  for  pleasure  merely,  never  read  or 
wrote  except  for  some  practical  immediate  purpose.  He 
left  no  book  of  meditations,  and  spent  no  time  in  the 
poor  work  of  nourishing  his  own  interior  life  as  separate 
from  the  salvation  of  his  flock.  The  folios  of  his  works 
are  the  digests  of  his  rules  and  laws,  and  letters  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  his  charge.  He  had  no  stint  of  labor 
"but  time  and  strength.  And  he  fasted  and  denied  himself 
always  for  a  practical  end. 

There  was  a  wonderful  mingling,  too,  in  his  address  of 
that  grace   and   sincerity  which  should   mark  a   bishop's 
demeanor.     No   man   ever   accused   him   of  deception   in 
look  or  word,  yet  his  kind  condescension  would  make  the 
poorest  feel  at'  ease  with  him,  and  his  tender  smile  disarm 
the  hatred  of  his  bitterest  foe.     He  had   no  patience  with 
the  least  word  of  flattery  or  sign  of  deceit.     "  My  Lord," 
said  one  of  his  courtiers  to   him,  "  I  will   tell  you  frankly 
what   I    think  of  this   affair."     "  What,  Sir,"  instantly  re- 
plied the   Cardinal,   '-Do   you  not  always  speak  frankly  ? 
Know  that  I  want  no  friends  whose  tongue  is   not   always 
true  to  their  thought."     He   had  confidence   in   the   good 
will   of  those  who  pretended  to   love   him,  and  despised 
only  those  who  threatened.     When  a  package  was  brought 
to  him   revealing  a  scheme  to   destroy  his  life,  he   quietly 
burned   it,  taking  no   means  to   arrest  the  guilty  parties. 
He  was  wont  to  say  that  if  his  life   were  lost  in  the  dis- 
charge of  duty,  God  would  bless  that   loss  to  his  Church. 
His  rebukes  to  the  negligent  were  so  directed   as  to  bring 
shame  and  remorse  without  hostility.     One  of  his  bishops 
incautiously  remarked  that  he   did   not  know  what  to  do. 
When   the   Cardinal   reached   home,  he   sat   down   in   his 
study   and   wrote  out  a  list  of  duties   of  a  good   bishop, 
adding  under  each  article,  "and  after  this  shall  a  bishop 
say  that  he  knows  not  what   to  do,"  and  sent  it  to  the 


34^  ST.  CHARLES  BOliliOMEO. 

offending  prelate.  The  remark  was  not  repeated.  No 
one  could  say  that  he  degraded  the  dignity  of  his  purple, 
and  yet  he  was  always  ready  to  take  upon  himself  the 
neglected  work  of  his  dependents. 

He  had,  too,  in  rare  perfection  that  individualising 
faculty  on  which  the  success  of  a  bishop  so  much  depends. 
He  knew  the  children  by  name  and  by  person.  He  kept 
in  his  memory  the  wants  and  circumstances  of  all  his 
colleges,  convents,  almoners,  and  prelates.  He  knew  who 
were  deserving  and  who  were  promising,  and  he  kept  his 
eye  upon  them.  With  intuitive  sagacity  he  detected  the 
signs  of  future  eminence  in  the  Church,  and  helped  to 
hasten  it.  Youngest  of  all  the  cardinals,  he  was  yet  most 
powerful  in  the  conclave,  and  more  than  one  Pope  was 
chosen  bv  his  susrsrestion.  Yet  he  was  as  careful  to  select 
wisely  his  parish  priest  as  the  Head  of  all  Christendom. 
He  listened  respectfully  to  all  honest  opinion,  though  it 
might  not  suit  his  own,  and  loved  no  servility.  He  wanted 
every  one  of  his  dependents  to  act  according  to  conscience, 
and  not  according  to  his  master's  plan.  He  did  not  ex- 
pect that  all  should  be  like  himself,  and  probably  never 
any  man  in  the  Church  had  so  much  power  and  zeal  with 
so  little  of  doGcmatic  arrogfance.  He  burnt  no  heretics. 
He  uttered  no  anathemas,  though  he  was  a  Catholic  of  the 
truest  stamp,  and  could  see  in  heresy  no  good  and  no 
hope.  He  was,  as  the  Apostle  says,  swift  to  hear,  slow  to 
speak  and  slow  to  wrath. 

yVnd  never  was  bishop  more  methodical  in  the  ordering  of 
his  duties.  His  multiplied  charges  were  all  arranged  by 
da3's  and  weeks  and  months  and  years,  so  that  he  knew 
always  what  to  do  and  when  to  do  it.  There  was  no  par- 
tiality and  no  omission  in  the  distribution  of  his  care. 
And  by  this  extraordinary  system  he  accomplished  in 
twenty  years  an  amount  of  Episcopal  labor  which  no  other 
bishop  has  approached.  His  personal  influence  was  felt 
in  every  city,  village,  parish,  convent,  hamlet,  and  home  of 
one  of  the  most  populous  provinces  in  Europe.  And  yet 
with  all  this  capacity  of  la])or,  the  temperament  of  St. 
Charles  was  sluggish,  and  the  action  of  his  mind  heavy 
rather  than  brilliant.  One  of  the  weaknesses  which  he 
knew  and  fought  against,  was   a  sleepiness  which   some- 


ST.  CHARLES  BORROMEO.  347 

times  caught  him  at  unseasonable  hours,  even  in  church, 
so  the  gossips  complained.  One  day  when  this  fit  seemed 
to  come  upon  him,  a  prelate  who  had  been  preaching 
whispered  to  his  neighbor,  "  If  I  were  Director  to  Car- 
dinal Borromeo,  I  would  make  him  sleep  in  his  bed,  and 
keep  awake  in  the  sermon."  But  when  the  guests  were 
assembled  at  dinner  the  Cardinal  amazed  them  by  repeat- 
ing passages  from  the  sermon,  of  which  they  supposed 
that  he  had  not  heard  a  word. 

It  is  hard  to  find  a  parallel  to  this  great  Christian 
pastor.  The  Catholic  Church  furnishes  no  other,  the 
Protestant  no  peer.  The  name  which  most  readily  sug- 
gests itself  to  the  comparison  is  that  of  Thomas  Chalmers. 
But  he  with  all  his  wide  parochial  efficiency  and  his  su- 
perior genius,  must  yield  the  pastoral  palm  to  the  Italian 
Cardinal.  There  were  many  points  of  resemblance  in 
their  character  and  work.  They  were  alike  in  physical 
constitution,  in  power  of  endurance,  in  practical  tastes 
and  tendencies,  in  care  for  the  suffering  classes,  in  heroic 
exposure  of  life  in  their  Master's  cause.  The  quality  of 
faith  in  both  was  the  same,  and  the  burden  of  preaching, 
too.  But  while  the  eloquence  of  Chalmers  was  great  as 
it  rose  to  the  highest  themes,  as  it  lightened  and  thundered 
in  the  upper  skies  of  thought,  the  word  of  Borromeo 
gained  power  as  it  came  down  and  entered  into  the  sim- 
pler offices  of  home  and  domestic  life.  The  piety  of 
Chalmers  inspired  men  to  see  visions  and  awakened 
great  thoughts  about  the  spirit-world,  about  heaven,  and  the 
judgment.  It  lifted  men  to  God's  world.  The  piety  of 
Borromeo  comforted  men  to  go  on  in  duty  below  and 
taught  them  what  to  do  to  make  life  serene,  and  beautiful, 
and  happy.  It  led  God  in  his  Church  from  home  to  home 
to  visit  the  believers. 

But  I  will  not  pursue  this  parallel.  A  single  page  shall 
close  this  protracted  story,  too  long  to  hear,  it  may  be,  but 
all  too  short  for  tJie  theme.  On  the  night  of  the  second 
of  November,  the  day  of  All  Souls,  the  report  was  given 
in  the  streets  of  Milan  that  their  Archbishop  was  dying. 
The  whole  city  was  soon  excited.  Every  man  left  his 
house.  Some  thronged  to  the  churches  to  pray.  Some 
waited  to  hear  instant  tidings  at  the  gate  of  the  palace. 
Solemn  processions  of  penitents  passed  along   the  way. 


348  ST.  CHARLES  BOREOMEO. 


Cries  were  heard  and  sobs  from  the  chambers,  where 
women  lamented.  The  convents,  in  the  height  of  their 
grief,  forgot  all  discipline,  and  set  no  bounds  to  their 
sighs  and  tears.  Wiih  the  earliest  light  the  solemn  tolling 
of  all  the  bells  told  that  a  great  sorrow  had  passed  upon 
the  people.  It  renewed  the  traditions  of  battles  and 
sieges.  Every  one  felt  that  he  had  lost  his  father  and  his 
defender,  and  feared  some  sfreat  calamitv  to  come.  Soon 
every  man  had  told  with  his  neisfhbor  the  storv  of  his  last 
hour,  what  a  peaceful,  beautiful.  Christian  death  the  great 
father  had  died,  so  vouns:,  vet  so  mature  in  sainthood. 
Such  a  funeral  was  nev^er  seen  in  that  Cathedral,  in  which 
the  terrible  grief  of  a  whole  people  was  so  condensed, 
and  unrestrained  even  by  the  majesty  of  the  place  and 
scene.  The  funeral  eulogy  was  pronounced  by  a  friend 
of  his  household,  and  the  tears  and  sobs  which  broke  its 
flow  were  witness  that  it  was  no  formal  praise.  Solemnly 
into  the  vault  before  the  choir  where  the  holv  man  had 
been  wont  to  lead  their  devotions  the  body  was  lowered, 
and  the  people  who  for  so  many  centuries  had  kept  first 
in  their  honors  the  name  of  Ambrose  consented  now  to 
place  above  the  saint  of  their  fathers  this  greater  Apostle 
of  Christ.  His  tomb  became  at  once  the  shrine  of  pil- 
grimage. The  piety  of  the  nations  knelt  there.  Such 
gifts  were  left  there  as  no  palace  could  show.  And  now 
no  estimate  can  reach  the  wealth  of  gold  and  silver  which 
adorn  that  shrine.  The  curious  stop  in  the  Cardinal's 
chapel  to  wonder  at  the  richness  of  this  tomb.  But  the 
reverent  student  of  history,  who  remembers  what  life  these 
costly  testimonies  commemorate,  beholds  in  this  splendid 
sepulchre  the  proof  that  the  heart  of  man  is  more  loyal 
to  goodness  than  to  greatness,  to  the  saint  than  to  the 
hero.  So  in  the  great  Cathedral  of  England  a  nation 
has  just  solemnly  entombed  the  body  of  its  greatest 
man,  with  a  funeral  more  splendid  than  the  nation  ever 
saw.  But  the  grave-stone  of  Wellington  will  soon  be  read 
with  no  more  reverence  than  that  of  other  heroes  who  lie 
there.  While  Protestants  beyond  the  sea  will  continue  to 
leave  at  the  tomb  of  the  good  bishop  of  Milan  if  not 
silver  and  gold,  at  least  a  tribute  of  gratitude  and  rever- 
ence to  a  virtue  that  recalled  in  a  desrenerate  age  the 
blameless  life  of  the  Saviour  of  men. 


THE  SOCiyi.  349 


XIV. 

SOCINUS    AND    HIS    FOLLOWERS. 

At  a  meeting  some  years  ago  of  the  American  Bible 
Society  in  New  York,  it  chanced  that  one  of  the  speakers 
appointed  was  a  distinguished  lawyer  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Boston,  a  man  of  wide  reputation  both  for 
wisdom,  worth  and  piety.  As  he  came  forward  to  speak, 
after  several  addresses  which  made  up  in  length  what  they 
lacked  in  interest.  I  remarked  to  my  neighbor,  an  intelli- 
o:ent  looking  Presbvterian  divine,  that  I  thought  now  we 
should  have  something  worth  hearinsr.  "No  !"  answered 
he  quickly,  "I  believe  the  man  is  a  Socinian."  And  his 
tone  conveyed  the  idea  that  it  was  impossible  for  a  So- 
cinian  to  say  anything  true,  good,  or  beautiful.  I  wanted 
to  turn  upon  him  the  argument  that  if  so  shrewd,  learned, 
and  excellent  a  man  could  be  a  Socinian  it  was  a  fair  pre- 
sumption that  the  name  was  honorable  to  bear,  and  the 
system  it  si2:nitied  a  true  one.  It  is  likelv  that  this  fre- 
quent  reproach  has  made,  too.  many  ashamed  of  the 
name,  when  an  investigation  of  the  history  connected  with 
it  would  show  that  far  more  praise  than  blame  belongs  to 
it.  If  the  character  and  spirit  of  its  founder  gives  honor 
to  any  sect  I  would  far  sooner  bear  a  name  which  was 
illustrated  by  men  so  pure  and  noble  as  Laelius  and 
Faustus  Socinus  than  the  name  of  the  stern  ruler  of 
Geneva,  the  murderer  of  Servetus. 

Many  persons  have  an  idea  that  the  Unitarian  heresy, 
as  they  choose  to  call  it,  is  a  small  and  recent  affair,  be- 
ginning in  New  En2:land  some  fifrv  or  sixtv  rears  ago. 
The  better  informed,  indeed,  have  a  tradition  about  a  cer- 
tain Arius,  who  made  a  2;ood  deal  of  stir  bv  denving  the 
Trinity  in  the  early  age  of  the  Church  but  was  finally  put 
down.  Some  perhaps  have  heard  that  another  teacher 
bv  name  Socinus,  went  farther  in  his  denials  and  said  that 


35  o  TUE  SO  CI  N I. 


Christ  was  a  mere  man,  and  that  he  was  put  down  too  ; 
though  who  Socinus  was,  where  he  came  from,  when  he 
lived  and  what  his  character  and  influence  were  thev  are 
quite  unable  to  conjecture.  About  as  far  as  any  one  gets 
in  the  matter  is  that  Socinus  had  something  to  do  with 
Poland,  and  that  he  lived  not  a  great  while  after  Luther 
and  Calvin.  It  would  surprise  a  good  many  to  be  told 
the  fact  that  Socinus  did  not  originate  any  sect  or  broach 
any  novel  heresy,  that  he  taught  only  what  a  large  number 
of  the  most  eminent  in  the  Church  had  believed  before 
him,  and  that  his  opinions,  though  persecuted  fiercely  by 
the  dogmatism  of  the  reformers,  were  never  put  down,  but 
gained  strength,  and  in  spite  of  obstacles  have  continued 
to  this  day  to  flourish  where  they  were  first  preached.  In 
Poland,  Hungary,  Transylvania,  not  to  speak  of  Switzer- 
land, Holland,  and  England,  the  Unitarian  system  of  re- 
ligion is  as  ancient  as  the  Puritan,  and  so  far  as  the  char- 
acter of  its  confessors  is  concerned  quite  as  respectable. 
That  faith  is  neither  novel  nor  heretical  in  which  such 
men  as  Locke  could  teach,  Newton  could  live,  and  Milton 
could  die,  and  which  is  joined  so  intimately  to  the  tragic 
heroism  of  the  most  unfortunate  nation  of  Europe, 

We  have  spoken  before  of  the  beginnings  of  the  Re- 
form and  of  the  men  who  were  leaders  in  the  great  schism 
of  the  sixteenth  century  which  severed  half  of  Europe 
from  its  allegiance  to  the  Catholic  Church.  We  are  to 
take  up  now  the  earliest  developments  of  reform,  its  off- 
shoots, its  extreme  movements,  not  so  much  the  sects  to 
which  it  gave  rise  as  the  directions  in  which  it  moved. 
And  the  four  directions  of  development  which  we  specify 
are  not  merely  fanciful.  They  have  each  separate  marks 
and  characteristics,  and  they  correspond  too  with  the 
phases  of  reaction  in  the  Catholic  Church,  which  we  have 
just  been  surveying.  The  antithesis  to  Catholic  reform  in 
doctrine,  in  action,  in  piety  and  in  life  is  found  in  the  sepa- 
rate religious  movements  in  Northern  Germany,  of  France, 
of  Holland  and  of  England.  Hardly  had  the  finished  de- 
crees of  the  Council  of  Trent  been  proclaimed  to  the 
world  when  the  acts  of  the  Polish  brethren  set  forth  a 
creed  diametrically  opposite,  built  on  another  foundation, 
with  other  dogmas,  and  in   another  spirit.     The   zeal  of 


THE  SOCINI.  351 


Ignatius  and  his  companions  was  met  and  matched  by  the 
fanatic  enthusiasm  of  the  Huguenots,  who  burned  to 
spread  in  their  native  land  the  views  of  Calvin,  as  the 
Jesuits  were  ready  to  carry  the  Gospel  of  Christ  far  and 
wide.  In  the  Low  Countries,  subject  to  the  same  rule  as 
mountainous  Spain,  a  theology  came  in  which  spurned  the 
convent  life  and  was  the  fiercest  foe  of  piety  like  that  of 
Teresa  of  the  flaming  heart.  The  lawyer  and  scholar 
Grotius  established  on  the  plain  a  practical  faith  quite 
unlike  that  castle  of  the  soul  which  the  Spanish  nun  went 
about  among  the  hills  to  fortify  and  build.  And  with 
many  points  of  resemblance,  the  most  striking  contrast  to 
the  sweet  charity  and  benevolence  and  forgiveness  of  St. 
Charles  Borromeo  was  shown  in  the  cold,  stern,  terrible 
sanctity  of  the  Puritan  life. 

We  speak  in  this  lecture  of  what  may  be  called  the  ex- 
treme dosrmatic  movement  of  the  Reformation,  and  of  that 
party  which  carried  its  principles  to  their  legitnnate  con- 
clusions, in  a  Christian  and  Scriptural  Rationalism.  Luther 
emancipated  human  reason  from  its  fetters  to  tradition 
and  authority,  but  he  did  not  apply  it  when  freed  to  the 
investigation  of  all  Christian  truths.  He  was  a  disciple  of 
the  fathers,  though  he  denied  the  authority  of  the  Pope, 
and  the  submission  which  he  refused  to  the  decrees  of 
Leo  and  the  Councils  he  yielded  to  the  dogmas  of  Augus- 
tine and  the  ancient  Church.  He  did  not  use  the  freedom 
which  he  claimed  except  to  rebel  against  existing  powers. 
But  there  were  others  who  acted  upon  his  protest  more 
thoroughly  and  dared  to  question  many  things  that  were 
taught  as  Christian  truth  beside  the  scheme  of  indul- 
gences and  the  folly  of  the  mass  ;  who  ascended  to  first 
principles,  and  sought  to  construct  for  themselves  a  faith 
that  should  harmonize  with  right  reason  in  all  its  parts 
without  losing  its  Scriptural  basis,  which  should  leave  to 
the  Divine  Nature  the  mystery  of  unspeakable  grandeur, 
but  not  of  a  mathematical  puzzle,  and  rescue  the  Divine 
government  at  once  from  the  charge  of  weakness,  fickle- 
ness and  cruelty ;  which  should  recognize  the  admitted 
facts  of  physical  science  in  regard  to  the  nature  of  man, 
while  it  preserved  the  promise  of  his  immortal  destiny, 
and  should  not  contradict  his  consciousness ;  which  should 


352  THE  SO  C  IN  I. 


give  Christ  all  the  honor  which  he  claimed  and  make  his 
salvation  a  practical  and  broad  spiritual  influence  instead 
of  a  mere  forensic  scheme  ;  which  should  make  of  religion 
in  a  word,  a  genuine  science,  friendly  to  all  other  discov- 
ed  truth. 

This  tendency  to  a  rational  religion  was  confined  at  first 
to  no  one  land,  but  broke  out  in  all  the  countries  of  Eu- 
rope on  the  first  proclamation  of  religious  liberty.  Carl- 
stadt,  at  first  the  friend  and  ally  of  Luther,  but  afterward 
bitterly  hated  and  persecuted  by  him,  was  its  Apostle  in 
Northern  Germany ;  and  the  number  of  his  disciples  was 
not  small.  The  Spaniard  Michael  Servetus  carried  it  from 
place  to  place,  fleeing  from  the  Inquisition  till  at  last  he 
suffered  in  Geneva  for  his  temeritv.  At  Basle  and  Zurich 
where  the  free  spirit  of  Zwingle  had  made  the  people 
hospitable  alike  to  learning  and  misfortune,  it  found  a 
w^elcome,  and  the  former  city  was  three  centuries  ago,  as 
it  is  to-day,  the  retreat  of  exiled  scholtirs  and  of  harassed 
faith.  But  the  earliest  centre  of  the  new  Rationalism 
seems  to  have  been  Venice,  where  liberty  of  conscience 
was  granted  by  the  government,  and  the  Inquisition  was 
held  in  bad  repute.  Here  the  great  scholars  of  Italy 
gathered  to  study  the  Scriptures  in  their  original  tongue, 
to  discuss  theology  and  to  compare  with  each  other  the 
results  of  their  inquiries.  Here,  if  not  encouraged  by  the 
public  authorities,  they  were  at  least  not  molested  in  their 
assemblies,  and  in  several  towns  of  the  republic,  particu- 
larly at  Vicenza,  regular  meetings,  weekly  or  monthly,  as 
the  case  might  be,  were  held  to  consult  concerning  the 
reform  of  the  creed.  And  hither  came  on  the  very  year 
when  the  first  action  of  the  Council  of  Trent  began,  to 
unite  by  his  comprehensive  wisdom,  to  guide  by  his  pru- 
dence, and  to  dignify  by  his  blameless  life,  the  delibera- 
tions so  rash,  of  an  attempt  so  daring,  the  man  whose 
name  still  designates  the  chief  of  Protestant  heresies,  the 
Etruscan  Laelius  Socinus. 

The  citv  Sienna  in  Etruria  is  famous  in  Christian  his- 
tory  from  its  union  with  the  name  of  Catherine,  one  of  the 
holiest  of  Catholic  saints.  But  it  was  more  highlv  honored 
in  being  the  birthplace  of  the  elder  Socinus.  By  the 
lineage  of  both  his  parents,  Laelius  was   allied  with  the 


THE  SOCINl.  353 


noblest  families  of  Tuscany,  the  Piccolommi,  the  Petrucii, 
and  the  Salvetti,  Eloquence,  beauty,  culture  and  courage 
were  his  proper  inheritance.  Law  was  the  profession  of 
his  ancestors,  and  his  father  and  elder  brother  well  sus- 
tained in  that  profession  the  family  tradition.  From 
childhood  Laelius  was  taught  that  a  free  spirit  of  inquiry 
was  the  only  foundation  for  sound  knowledo:e,  and  that 
patient  investigation  was  the  sure  pioneer  of  truth.  The 
rules  of  evidence  which  his  father  applied  to  the  details 
of  cases  and  books  of  statute,  Laelius  applied  to  the  great 
record  of  all  law,  and  ventured  to  interpret  the  Scriptures 
as  he  would  have  read  the  Institutes  and  Pandects  of 
Justinian.  His  keen  scrutiny  failed  not  to  observe  the 
incongruity  between  the  doctrines  of  the  Church  around 
him  and  its  ancient  text  books  of  faith.  He  could  not 
find  in  them  many  of  the  articles  which  the  creeds  made 
essential  to  salvation.  Doubts  began  to  arise  in  his  mind, 
which  more  thorough  investigation  only  confirmed.  The 
studies  of  his  kindred  did  not  run  in  the  same  direction, 
and  the  wisdom  of  his  father  did  not  lie  in  the  same 
province.  In  the  great  law  schools  of  Italy  at  this  period 
the  Gospel  was  not  deemed  important  enough  to  foster 
study.  At  the  age  of  twenty-one  Laelius,  as  we  men- 
tioned, came  to  Venice,  hoping  to  find  in  the  societies  of 
that  republic  a  solution  of  his  doubts  and  sympathy  with 
his  inquiries.  He  found  this  among  the  scholars  there, 
but  he  lost  it  almost  as  soon. 

For  that  decisive  year  1546,  memorable  in  so  many  ways 
for  the  death  of  Luther,  the  opening  of  the  Council  of 
Trent,  the  reconciliation  between  the  Pope  and  the  Em- 
peror, brought  also  the  Inquisition  to  Venice.  The  fires 
of  persecution  began  to  burn  and  the  free  thought  of 
Italy  furnished  its  martyrs.  The  meetings  were  broken 
up.  The  Doge  and  Senate  were  forced  into  a  weak  com- 
pliance with  the  demands  of  foreign  lords  and  withdrew 
their  protection  from  the  heretics.  The  scholars  scattered 
themselves  to  the  Protestant  nations,  some  to  England, 
some  to  Poland,  many  to  Switzerland.  Laelius  left  Venice 
not  as  an  exile  for  his  opinions  but  as  a  traveller  and 
scholar.  Four  years  he  spent  in  visiting  the  principal 
countries  of  Europe,  making  the  acquaintance   of  men  of 

23 


354  THE  SOCINL 


letters,  and  comin^j  into  bonds  of  the  most  friendly  al- 
liance with  the  chief  reformers,  which  even  his  heresies 
could  not  break.  Melancthon  was  his  constant  corres- 
pondent. The  months  which  Socinus  passed  at  Wittemberj^ 
were  spent  in  the  closest  intimacy  and  such  testimonials 
from  the  hand  of  the  Reformer  went  with  the  young  Italian 
that  he  was  received  everywhere  among  Protestants  with 
honor.  Calvin  was  one  of  his  earliest  acquaintances  and 
continued  until  his  death  to  advise  and  warn  him.  In 
Zurich  he  found  a  home  with  the  pastor  Bullinger,  the 
successor  and  friend  of  Zwingle,  and  the  relation  between 
them  was  almost  that  of  father  and  son.  But  nowhere 
in  all  his  travels  did  he  find  a  place  where  it  was  safe  or 
comfortable  to  preach  his  opinions  openly.  Nor  did  he 
care  to  be  a  preacher.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  not 
quite  come  to  make  public  this  radical  protest  against 
Rome,  this  protest  against  the  whole  system  of  faith  from 
its  foundation  downward.  He  was  content  to  wait  for 
some  bolder  hand  to  seize  a  more    favorable  moment. 

But  in  the  circles  of  private  friendship  the  nature  of 
Laelius  Socinus  was  too  frank  to  allow  any  concealment 
of  his  views.  There  was  not  one  of  the  principal  mys- 
teries of  faith  of  which  he  did  not  make  question  in  some 
of  his  letters.  The  Trinity,  the  Atonement,  the  resurrec- 
tion of  the  body,  all  form  the  subject  of  ingenious  discus- 
sion with  Calvin  and  others.  His  position  as  ambassador 
from  Germany  and  Poland  to  the  Venetian  state  gave  to 
his  opinions  more  importance,  and  when,  at  the  death  of 
his  father  in  1556,  he  went  home  to  settle  the  estate,  they 
discovered  in  his  reluctance  to  receive  many  of  the  doc- 
trines of  Catholic  faith  that  his  radical  views  still,  after 
the  travel  and  experience  of  ten  years,  remained  un- 
changed. Six  years  later  he  died  at  Zurich.  Earnest 
efforts  had  been  made  to  have  him  expelled  from  the 
btate  as  a  heretic  and  a  blasphemer.  And  some  who  re- 
spected him  as  a  scholar  and  a  man  of  uprightness  feared 
so  much  the  poison  of  his  influences  that  they  secretly 
approved  these  efforts.  But  the  early  death  of  Socinus 
anticipated  them.  And  he  left  behind,  if  not  a  wide  at 
least,  a  high  reputation  for  Christian  virtues  and  liberal 
spirit.     His  denials  of  dogmas  did  not  embitter  his  temper 


THE  SOCINI.  355 


or  make  him  a  destructive.  He  granted  to  others  the 
liberty  which  he  chiimed.  The  sternness  of  Cahnn's  re- 
l)ukes  could  not  irritate  him,  while  it  could  frighten  him  as 
little  from  his  free  inquiries.  No  one  could  say  that  the 
heir  of  aristocratic  races  lowered  his  dignity  by  associating 
with  rebellious  priests.  Without  concealment  or  com- 
promise, yet  without  violence  or  importunity,  he  uttered 
liis  views  when  the  occasion  served  him,  and  died  predicting 
that  his  nephew  would  become  an  apostle  of  the  truth, 
which  he  only  dimly  prophesied. 

The    wider    fame    of    Faustus    Socinus    has    unjustly 
eclipsed  the  services  of  his  uncle  in  the  cause  of  liberal 
religion.     In  age  they  were  not  widely  separate.     Laelius 
had  not  reached   the  full  stature   of  manhood,  when  his 
brother   Alexander's    son    was    born.     Deprived    of    his 
parents  at  an  early  age,  the  young  Faustus  had  few  advan- 
tages  of  literary  culture,  and   studied  but   little  of    that 
philosophy  which   his  father  had  taught  with  such  renown 
in  the  University  of  Padua.     It  is   strange  that  with  so 
slight  a  discipline  in   logic  and  theology,  he  was  able  to 
write  so  soon  and  so  well  on  the  great  subjects  of  religious 
controversy.     Much,  indeed,  had  been  done  for  him  by  his 
uncle.     But  he  was  still  a  child  when  Laelius  departed  on 
his  long  years  of  travel,  and  he  was  left  chiefly  to  his  own 
resources.     But  the  boy  had  a  mind  of  rare  acuteness  and 
an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge  ;  and  what  fortune  failed 
to   do  for  him   nature   accomplished.     He   adopted   with 
great  ardor  the  opinions  of  his  uncle,  and  found  soon  that 
to  profess  them  freely,  he  must  leave  his  native  land.     The 
death  of  his  uncle  broke  the  tie  which  bound  him  to  Italy, 
though  he  passed  after  that  twelve  years  in  honorable  em- 
ployment in  the  Tuscan   Court.      He    had    reached   the 
mature  age  of  thirty-five  when  he  took  up  his  residence  at 
Basle,  on  the  Rhine,  hoping  in  that  hospitable  city  to  find  a 
permanent  home  as  a  teacher  of  Christian  theology.     In- 
heriting the  numerous  manuscripts  of  his  uncle,  he  em- 
ployed   himself  in  giving  them   shape   and  method,   and 
framing  into  a  consistent  system  what  had  been  left  there 
in  a  crude   and  undi2:ested   form.      And   he   s^ave  himself 
with  more  intense  zeal  to  the  study  of  the  Scriptures. 
Three  years  passed  on,  when  he  began  to  appear  as  a 


35^  THE  SOCINL 


public  debater,  boldly  defending  the  thesis  that  the  Trinity 
was  a  pai^an  and  no  Christian  doctrine,  and  that  Christ 
was  the  created  Son,  and  not  the  uncreated  God.  These 
controversies  irave  him  fame.  He  was  called  into  Tran- 
sylvania,  where  the  eloquence  and  learning  of  George  Blan- 
drata  had  already  established  many  churches  of  Unitarian 
views.  Here  a  fantastic  zealot,  by  name  Francis  David, 
had  advanced  views  which  threatened  to  destroy  the 
harmony  and  sound  faith  of  the  reformed  churches,  and  it 


was  thou2:ht  that  the  clear  reason  of  Socinus  mi^ht  be 
useful  in  checking  the  disorder.  But  the  enterprise  failed, 
and  a  contagious  disease  sent  Socinus  still  farther,  to  visit 
the  churches  of  Poland,  where  he  might  expect  more 
sympathy  and  success.  An  early  visit  of  Laelius  Socinus, 
accompanied  by  one  Spiritus  from  Holland,  and  a  discus- 
sion which  they  held  on  the  question,  "  whether  there  are 
three  gods,"  had  left  doubts  in  the  minds  of  several 
eminent  men  whether  the  common  notion  of  the  Trinity 
were  true.  The  suggestions  of  separate  teachers  passed 
into  the  discussions  of  the  Synods,  and  with  every  new 
meeting  the  Unitarian  side  gained  proselytes.  The  doc- 
tors of  the  church  took  the  alarm.  Remonstrances  were 
sent  against  all  discussion  of  this  great  fundamental 
mystery.  And  the  result  finally  was  a  schism,  which 
separated  into  unequal  branches  of  the  Reformed  Church 
those  who  held  to  the  Trinity,  and  those  who  received  the 
simple  unity  of  God.  In  this  latter  division  there  were 
wide  differences  of  opinion,  some  taking  the  name  of 
Famovius,  holding  to  the  high  Arian  notion  of  the  pre- 
existence  of  Christ,  and  his  superhuman,  though  not  his 
divine,  nature ;  and  others,  bearing  the  title  of  Budneans, 
maintaining  the  simple  humanitarian  view  that  Jesus  was 
a  man,  though  the  best  and  holiest  of  men.  By  union  and 
perseverance,  however,  they  succeeded  in  obtaining  from 
the  government  an  edict  of  toleration,  and  made  such 
progress  that  before  long  the  chief  cities  of  the  south  of 
Poland  were  substantially  possessed  by  them. 

This  was  the  state  of  religious  parties  when  Socinus 
arrived  in  Poland.  He  did  not  find  there  the  hearty  wel- 
come which  he  expected.  His  view  of  Christ,  midway 
between  that  of  the  two  leading  parties,  satisfied  neither. 


THE  SOCINI.  357 


It  was  too  radical  for  the  strict  party,  it  was  too  strict  for 
the  radical  party.  He  seemed  to  the  teachers  of  the  land 
presumptuous  in  attempting  to  instruct  them.  How 
should  an  Italian  vairrant  enli2;hten  a  land  where  the 
Bible  had  so  long  been  read,  and  studies  in  theology  were 
native  to  the  people  .-*  To  avoid  persecution  Socinus  re- 
tired to  the  estate  of  a  nobleman,  a  few  miles  from 
Cracow,  where  his  person  was  secure  and  he  was  treated 
with  such  kindness  that  he  could  forget  the  enmity  of  the 
churches.  A  marriage  with  the  dau2:hter  of  the  house 
seemed  to  secure  his  fortune,  but  it  was  the  prelude  of 
most  bitter  reverses.  Death  deprived  him  soon  of  his 
wife  and  his  benefactors.  Sickness  prostrated  his  frame 
and  weakened  his  mental  powers.  News  came  to  him 
that  his  estates  in  Italy  were  forfeited,  and  that  he  could 
hope  no  longer  to  receive  any  income  from  that  source. 
The  position  of  the  Unitarian  church  in  the  land  was  in- 
secure by  the  struggles  of  competitors  for  the  elective 
monarchy,  and  the  jjoor  exile  might  feel  that  his  lot  had 
fallen  in  an  evil  time. 

But  his  courage  did  not  fail.  As  worldlv  prospects 
-grew  darker  he  gave  himself  with  a  more  single  devotion 
to  what  he  believed  to  be  the  cause  of  truth  and  God.  In 
the  Svnods  he  maintained  his  views  with  g^reat  vi^or  and 
fertile  argument,  and  one  book  after  another  came  from 
his  pen.  Neither  persuasions  nor  threats  could  silence 
him,  and  when,  after  the  publication  of  his  work  "on  the 
Saviour,"  he  was  assaulted  in  person,  dragged  from  his 
sick  bed  into  the  street,  exposed  half  naked  in  the  market 
place,  menaced  with  punishment,  with  his  furniture  broken 
and  his  manuscripts  destroyed,  they  could  extort  from  him 
no  word  of  recantation.  He  found  protection  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life  at  the  house  of  another  nobleman, 
where  he  spent  his  time  in  reconciling  the  differences 
of  the  liberal  creeds,  and  refuting  the  errors  of  the 
ancient  systems.  He  died  at  the  close  of  the  year  1604  in 
his  sixty-fifth  year,  welcoming  the  event  as  a  release  from 
earthlv  troubles  and  a  summons  to  nearer  visions  of  great 
spiritual  truth.  On  his  tomb  was  inscribed  the  couplet : 
"  Luther  destroyed  the  house  of  Babylon,  Calvin  the  walls, 
but  Socinus  the  foundations."  "  Tota  licet  Babylon  destruxit 
tecta  Lutherus,  muros  Calvinus,  sed  fundamenta  Socinus." 


35^  THE  SOCINL 


The  sin2:le  child  which  he  left  became  the  wife  of  a  dis- 
tinguished  Polish  nobleman,  and  through  her  descendants 
he  is  to  this  day  the  ancestor  of  many  eminent  Unitarians, 
both  in  the  State  and  Church.  His  grandson,  Witsowa- 
tius,  was  a  divine  of  great  influence  in  the  body  of  liberal 
Christians,  both  through  his  acquirements  and  the  weight 
of  his  character,  and  his  filial  piety  never  forgot  the  first 
confessor  in  the  family  of  the  views  which  he  cherished. 

The  character  of  Socinus  needs  not  to  be  elaborately 
drawn.  His  enemies  have  freely  admitted  that  he  was  an 
able,  an  attractive,  and  a  virtuous  man,  captivating  by  the 
force  of  his  genius,  the  fervor  of  his  eloquence  and  beauty 
of  his  life.  Less  learned  than  many  of  the  doctors  of  his 
age,  few  could  surpass  him  in  acquaintance  with  the  text 
of  that  sacred  word  which  in  all  disputes  is  the  Christian's 
authority.  If  he  lacked  acquaintance  with  Plato  and  Tully, 
he  was  familiar  with  the  mind  of  Paul  and  John.  A  defender 
of  reason  and  the  intellect,  he  never  gave  these  the  mastery 
over  the  clear  precepts  of  Christ.  His  insight  seemed  to 
reveal  at  once  the  meaning  of  obscure  passages,  to  make 
the  dark  places  light,  and  the  rough  places  plain.  It  was 
at  once  rapid  and  wide,  seeing  things  quickly  and  seeing 
them  thoroughly.  And  he  had  a  singular  mental  integrity. 
There  was  no  weak  spot,  through  which  error  could  gain 
entrance.  Logical  absurdities  had  no  insinuation  bv  which 
his  seat  of  conviction  could  he  reached.  He  believed  that 
the  only  faith  good  for  anything  was  one  which  a  man  might 
justify  to  himself  and  to  others,  which  he  could  hold  on  its 
own  merits,  not  on  any  traditional  authority.  He  had  no 
such  reverence  for  great  names  that  he  would  allow  them 
to  persuade  him  into  a  surrender  of  right  reason.  He  was 
an  independent  thinker,  independent  of  his  own  party  as 
much  as  of  the  party  of  prescription,  a  Protestant  of  the 
Protestants.  And  if  he  believed  less  than  other  great 
teachers,  he  believed  what  he  did  believe  with  all  the 
intensity  of  a  clear  knowledge.  He  looked  before  and 
behind,  and  saw  where  his  faith  arose  and  whither  it 
tended,  its  relations  both  to  abstract  truth  and  to  practical 
life. 

He  was  a  true  enthusiast,  some  would  say,  a  zealot.  He 
did  what  few  are  apt  to  do,  sacrificed  family  pride,  rank, 


THE  SOCINL  359 


fortune,  station,  the  most  flattering  worldly  prospects  to 
the  promulgation  of  his  unpopular  views.  Many  have 
relinquished  worldly  advantages  to  serve  in  the  ranks  of 
Christian  confessors,  and  the  lives  of  Ignatius  and  Borgia 
had  proved  that  the  flower  of  knighthood  may  humble 
itself  to  shed  the  Gospel  fragrance.  But  the  religion  to 
which  these  eminent  saints  gave  up  their  fortune  was  pop- 
ular and  powerful.  They  sacrificed  nothing  for  abstract 
ideas.  But  Socinus  had  faith  in  abstract  ideas,  and  his 
zeal  went  to  establish  that  which  for  one  thousand  years 
had  borne  the  Church's  anathema.  For  this  he  wrote,  and 
labored  and  prayed,  travelled  from  place  to  place,  and  was 
ready,  if  the  need  came,  to  suffer  death.  He  knew  that 
heretics  like  himself  could  have  no  place  amon'g  the 
honored  martyrs  of  the  Church  ;  that  their  labors  and 
sacrifices  would  be  hastily  passed  over,  and  no  honor  be 
left  to  them  on  the  pages  of  history.  But  he  did  not 
repent  of  the  part  which  he  had  chosen.  He  would  accept 
no  gifts  where  they  might  weaken  or  unsettle  his  earnest- 
ness in  his  faith,  or  modify  his  opinion.  Nor  would  differ- 
ence or  enmity  on  minor  points  hinder  him  from  working 
with  those  who  mainly  agreed  with  him.  He  prized  the 
cause  of  God  hisrher  than  his  own  comfort.  "  When  I 
came  into  Poland,"  said  he,  "  I  desired  nothing  more 
earnestly  than  to  be  united  to  the  brethren  in  the  closest 
ties  of  communion,  though  I  found  that  in  many  points  of 
religion,  they  thought  differently  from  me,  as  many  do  to 
this  day :  and  God  knoweth,  what  and  how  great  things  I 
suffer  on  this  account ;  declining  in  the  meantime  no 
labors,  however  hazardous  or  hard,  which  either  the  breth- 
ren themselves  have  enjoined  me,  or  which  I  hope  may  be 
useful  to  our  Churches." 

As  has  been  finely  said  of  another,  Socinus  had  a 
Protestant  mind,  but  a  Catholic  heart.  He  cherished  no 
theological  hatreds.  If  his  words  at  times  seemed  harsh 
and  even  fierce,  they  were  not  malignant.  He  conceded 
to  an  opponent  all  the  freedom  which  he  claimed  for  him- 
self, and  he  endeavored  to  judge  candidly  the  arguments 
which  he  tried  to  refute.  His  was  no  spirit  of  intolerance. 
And  he  brought  into  his  debates  no  personalities.  In  his 
most  sharp   controversy,  he   tells   his   adversary,   "if   you 


3^o  THE  SOCINI. 


study  to  practice  purity  of  life  and  Ciiristian  sanctity, 
whatever  may  be  your  sentiment  on  the  subject  of  our 
debate,  I  will  always  acknowledge  you  for  my  brother  in 
Christ,  and  will  think  there  is  a  sufficient  agreement 
between  us."  Nothing  was  more  abhorrent  to  his  heart 
than  the  thought  of  propagating  or  suppressing  a  religion 
by  force.  He  might  deny  future  salvation  to  Papists  and 
infidels,  but  he  would  not  shut  these  out  from  their  earthly 
civil  rights.  He  might  call  the  opinion  of  Francis  David 
and  his  party,  subordinating  Christ  to  Moses,  and  the 
Gospel  to  the  Jewish  Law,  "  an  impious  and  detestable 
doctrine."  But  he  clears  himself  by  an  elaborate  defence 
from  the  charge  of  persecuting  this  unfortunate  man.  Yet, 
like  Luther  and  the  other  reformers,  he  is  not  unwilling  to 
have  such  blasphemers  shut  up  as  madmen,  where  their 
corrupting  influence  may  do  no  harm  among  the  people. 
He  did  not  think  it  expedient  that  men  whom  he  believed 
insane  should  be  set  in  the  Churches  to  preach  and  teach. 
If  his  theory  of  toleration  be  not  the  perfect  one  of  this 
age  of  light,  it  was  at  least  far  in  advance  of  the  theory  of 
his  cotemporary  Reformers. 

Few  heretics  have  escaped  so  completely  the  charge  of 
personal  immorality.  No  one  could  say  that  Faustus 
Socinus  flung  off  the  restraints  of  the  prevalent  faith,  that 
he  might  give  more  license  to  his  appetite  or  gratify  his 
pride.  In  all  his  habits,  he  was  exemplar}'.  Modesty,  a 
hereditary  virtue,  grew  upon  him  with  his  years.  His  con- 
fidence was  the  confidence  of  truth,  and  not  of  vanity. 
Taking  no  means,  like  the  Catholic  zealots,  to  mortify  the 
flesh,  he  was  yet  sparing  as  a  monk  of  physical  indul- 
gences, and  preferred  to  give  in  charity  what  he  could  save 
from  appetite.  Making  no  parade  of  his  humility  by 
squalidness  of  dress,  or  servility  of  manners,  he  showed  it 
best  in  the  style  of  his  phrases  an<I  his  unaffected  diffi- 
dence. He  was  sensible  of  his  own  infirmities  and  had  a 
quick  and  tender  conscience.  Yet  he  cared  less  about 
himself  than  about  the  truth.  Naturally  quick  to  take 
offence,  he  schooled  himself  to  bear  personal  insults  and 
reproaches,  and  the  misfortunes  which  came  so  rapidly 
upon  him.  His  piety  was  a  deep,  warm  and  continual 
glow  of  love  to   God,    not    expressing   itself  in  tears  and 


THE  SOCIXI.  361 


prayers  so  much  as  in  a  manly  persuasion  of  other  men  to 
his  faith.  The  singleness  of  his  worship  helped  him  to 
feel  a  sfenuine  s:ratitude.  His  letters  becrin  and  end  with 
the  name  of  the  Divine  Being.  In  all  his  discussions 
about  the  Nature  of  God,  he  never  forgot  the  reverence 
due  to  that  great  name.  In  affliction,  he  leaned  upon  the 
invisible  arm,  and  in  joy,  he  referred  all  his  good  gifts  to 
God.  No  writer  is  more  free  with  those  expressions  which 
mark  the  presence  of  a  living  and  unfeigned  faith  in  a 
spiritual  Father. 

That  Socinus  was  a  good  man,  even  malice  could  not 
deny.  His  enemies  confessed  his  eminence  in  the  practi- 
cal Christian  graces.  Yet  he  was  a  heretic  of  the 
heretics.  He  held  opinions  which  some  called  infidel 
then,  and  which  manv  is^norantlv  call  infidel  now.  His 
view  of  God  and  Christ,  of  the  nature  and  needs  of  man, 
was  certainly  different  from  the  received  creed,  and  no 
portrait  of  his  moral  excellence  can  remove  from  him  the 
honor  or  the  stigma,  as  men  may  choose  to  think  it,  of 
beinsf  the  chief  orsfanizer  in  modern  times  of  Unitarian 
views  in  religion.  It  is  fit,  therefore,  that  we  should  state 
the  principal  articles  in  his  creed,  that  it  may  be  judged 
whether  he  ridnlv  deserves  the  name  of  Heresiarch.  The 
materials  for  our  judgment  are  ample.  The  works  of 
Socinus  make  two  volumes  of  the  seven  folios  which  illus- 
trate the  literary  industry  and  genius  of  the  Polish 
brethren.  And  the  Racovian  catechism,  which  still  re- 
mains a  text-book  in  the  churches  of  Hungary  and  Tran- 
sylvania, is  mainly  compiled  from  his  words  and  writings. 
The  writino^s  of  Socinus  are  not  onlv  numerous  but  ex- 
ceedingly  various.  Sometimes  they  are  controversial, 
sometimes  expository,  sometimes  epistles,  and  then  homil- 
ies, now  theological,  and  now  practical.  Yet  his  peculiar 
system  forms  the  basis  of  all  the  argument,  the  criticism, 
the  exhortation  and  the  friendship.  It  comes  into  the  in- 
terpretation of  the  sermon  on  the  Mount,  not  less  than 
into  the  discussion  of  John's  Logos.  The  tracts  on 
Baptism,  the  Supper,  and  the  duty  of  believers,  could  not 
have  been  written  by  a  Trinitarian  more  than  the  book  on 
the  theme  "Christ' the  Son  of  God."  The  creed  of  no 
teacher  was  more  solidly  built  or  more  clearly  expressed. 


362  THE  SOCINl. 


The  chief  article  of  the  heresy  of  Socinus  was  his  view 
of  the  Saviour.  He  held  that  Christ  was  born  miracu- 
lously of  a  pure  virgin,  yet  was  human  in  his  person  and 
attributes,  a  brother  of  the  race  of  man  ;  that  his  relation 
to  God  was  not  that  of  identity,  but  of  sonship.  He  was 
the  Christ,  the  anointed  of  God,  honored  above  all  other 
mortals,  though  subject  like  them  to  the  physical  laws. 
He  was  sent  by  God  to  bear  to  men  tidings  of  his  will. 
He  was  empowered  by  God  to  show  men  the  way  of  salva- 
tion. He  was  to  be  a  king  of  God's  people.  He  was  to 
be  the  chief  bishop  of  God's  church.  He  was  to  be  the 
great  High  Priest  who  should  distribute  pardon ;  the 
Mediator  to  reconcile  man  and  God.  In  him  were  the 
ancient  prophecies  fulfilled.  In  him  are  the  wants  of  all 
nations  met.  In  his  own  day  he  was  the  promised  Jewish 
Messiah.  In  our  dav  he  is  still  the  sufficient  Redeemer. 
Between  him  and  Moses  there  was  strict  historic  analogy. 
The  Hebrew  lawgiver  was  the  type  of  the  later  Saviour. 
He  existed  in  the  thought  of  God  before  all  worlds,  but 
his  actual  life  be^an  when  he  was  born  in  Bethlehem  of 
Judea.  His  eternal  Being  is  of  the  future  rather  than  of 
the  past,  and  that  all  men  shall  share  with  him.  He  sav^es 
men  from  their  sins  by  his  death  and  by  his  life  ;  by  his 
word  and  by  his  example ;  by  his  influence  upon  their 
hearts  and  wills,  and  not  by  any  change  in  the  plans  of 
God.  He  takes  away  the  sins  of  men,  not  forensically, 
according  to  a  scheme,  but  actually,  with  no  deception,  not 
by  taking  upon  himself  all  at  once  their  penalty,  but  by  re- 
moving their  substance,  not  in  the  way  of  an  atonement  to 
God,  but  of  a  reconciliation  of  man. 

This  view  of  Christ  and  his  mission  Socinus  very  fully 
illustrates.  His  logic  binds  in  an  iron  chain  the  testimonies 
of  Scripture,  which  defend  it.  He  explains  frankly,  with- 
out explaining  away  those  passages  of  Scripture  which 
men  have  brought  into  the  defence  of  opposite  views,  and 
shows  how  they  harmonize  with  his  view.  He  will  take 
what  St.  John  says  about  the  Word  in  the  beginning,  the 
Word  with  God  and  the  Word  made  flesh,  and  show  that 
the  common  use  of  language  among  the  Hebrews  allowed 
such  description  of  a  created  being.  He  shows  us  St.  Paul 
confessing  the   doctrine  of  the  Unity,  and  writing,  too,  in 


THE  SOCIXI.  3^3 


the  style  of  the  Psalmist,  about  gods  of  inferior  honor. 
*•  For  although  there  be  who  are  called  gods,  whether  in 
heaven  or  earth,  as  there  are  gods  many  and  lords  many, 
yet  to  us  there  is  but  one  God.  the  Father,  of  whom  are 
all  things."  He  brings  readily  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews, 
so  long  the  unfailing  arsenal  of  the  Trinitarian  party,  into 
clear  confirmation  of  the  opposite  view,  and  proves  that 
the  powers  ascribed  there  to  Christ  are  derived  and  not 
original.  He  quotes  the  words  of  Christ  in  his  conversa- 
tions with  friends,  and  his  replies  to  foes,  in  his  formal 
discourse,  and  his  occasional  parable,  in  what  he  said 
to  Pharisees  seeking  to  entice  him  to  blaspheme,  and 
what  he  said  to  the  vounsr  ruler  askins:  the  wav  of  salva- 
tion — in  what  he  claimed  of  himself,  and  svhat  he  refused 
of  himself ;  his  words  at  the  well  with  the  woman,  at  the 
table  with  his  brethren,  and  on  the  cross  with  the  multitude 
around  him,  to  prove  by  accumulation  of  evidence  and 
by  the  irresistible  weight  of  earnest  sincerity,  that  the 
power  of  Christ  was  delegated  power  ;  that  his  help  came 
from  a  higher  source,  and  that  the  most  honorable  epithet 
due  to  him  was  the  epithet  that  the  apostles,  the  multitude 
and  the  Roman  soldiers  gave  him,  the  *'  Son  of  God." 

Socinus  is  ven,-  careful  that  none  shall  accuse  him  of 
desrradino^  the  work  of  Christ  bv  denvins^  Christ's  share  in 
the  Gk)dhead.  He  is  never  wean,-  of  discoursing  upon  the 
lofty  perfections  and  the  sweet  influences  of  Christ's  char- 
acter, and  to  no  believer  could  grace  and  redemption  be 
more  sweet  and  charming  themes.  He  shows  how  a  just 
regard  to  the  inliuence  of  Christ's  gospel  upon  the  sinners' 
heart  renders  needless  the  scheme  of  a  sacrificial  atone- 
ment ;  how  if  sin  can  be  purged  away  by  the  imitation  of 
Christ  its  punishment  may  be  justly  remitted.  To  him 
forgiveness  is  a  word  of  great  meaning  and  power ;  and 
repentance,  the  word  which  John  and  Jesus  so  often  used, 
which  the  apostles  were  commanded  to  preach  as  the  pre- 
liminary- step  to  the  inheritance  of  God's  kingdom,  joined 
to  the  rite  of  purilication  and  the  feast  of  communion, 
their  words  forgiveness  and  repentance  were  far  holier 
than  the  word  atonement,  which  neither  Jesus  nor  his 
companions  ever  used.  He  would  not,  by  unduly  exalting 
the  death  of  Christ,  depreciate  his  pure   and  blameless 


364  THE  SOCINI. 


life,  or  have  men  forget  that  the  last  great  martyrdom  was 
but  the  noble  close  of  long  months  of  heroic  service  to 
men.  He  could  not  rest  upon  the  small  passage  of  Cal- 
vary, with  all  its  physical  marvel  and  moral  grandeur,  as 
containing  the  whole  of  redemption.  He  looked  at  the 
life  which  went  before,  and  at  the  glory  which  came  after  ; 
at  the  meek,  long-suffering  and  loving  missionary,  who 
went  teaching  and  preaching,  healing  and  restoring  from 
city  to  city,  and  at  the  risen  and  ascended  Lord,  exercising 
still  from  on  high  sovereignty  in  his  church.  And  he  en- 
couraged prayer  to  Christ  for  spiritual  blessings  and  for  a 
place  in  the  kingdom  of  the  liedeemed.  He  could  not 
seal  the  work  of  Christ  forever  by  the  clotted  blood  from 
his  veins,  but  saw  him  reigning  on  High  and  interceding 
for  sinners  with  the  Father. 

In  this  view  of  Christ  lay  the  chief  of  Socinus's  here- 
sies. But  they  reckoned  also  as  unsound  his  view  of  the 
nature  of  man  and  the  origin  of  sin.  He  did  not  count 
physical  death  as  the  worst  of  calamities,  or  refer  this  to 
sin  as  a  necessary  consequence.  Man,  he  believed,  was 
naturally  mortal,  created  in  the  beginning  with  a  frame 
subject  to  decay,  and  set  under  a  law  of  death  as  absolute 
as  the  law  of  life.  The  death  which  sin  brought  into  the 
world  was  spiritual,  a  loss  of  the  soul's  immortality,  joy 
and  hope.  To  restore  this  Christ  came.  To  bring  im- 
mortal life  to  light  he  ministered  to  man.  To  awaken  the 
dormant  capacity  of  holiness  and  develop  the  power  of 
life  in  every  soul ;  to  sanctify  the  earlier  revelations,  and 
fulfill,  by  the  disclosure  of  heaven,  the  longings  of  the 
heart  after  a  rest  not  of  earth ;  to  renew  the  balance  of 
spiritual  forces,  and  make  man  not  what  he  was  in  the  be- 
ginning, so  much  as  what  he  was  meant  to  be  in  the  end; 


this  was  the  thought  of  Socinus  concerning  Christ's  reli- 
gion in  the  soul.  He  denied  alike  the  original  righteous- 
ness and  the  original  sin  of  man,  asserting  only  the 
original  possibility  of  both  virtue  and  sin.  Sin  began 
with  Adam  when  wrong  was  first  committed,  and  it  so 
begins  with  every  man.  The  reproach  of  conscience  is 
its  proper  witness.  Virtue  begins  when  man  refuses 
temptation,  and  sensible  of  his  freedom,  rejects  those 
things  which  the  word  of  God,  in  Scripture  or  in  reason, 


THE  SOCINL  365 


i:ells  him  is  wronsf.  A  man  cannot  be  c^uiltvfor  his  father's 
transgression,  neither  will  a  just  God  hold  him  responsible 
for  sins  which  he  has  never  wilfully  committed.  He  is  not 
to  blame  for  the  infirmities  of  his  spirit  more  than  for  the 
M-eakness  of  his  bodily  frame.  His  sin  is  a  result  of  per- 
sonal choice  and  not  of  natural  pravity.  His  righteous- 
ness is  his  own  and  his  guilt  is  his  own  to  every  man. 

Socinus  followed  Pelagius  in  his  view  of  the  freedom  of 
the  will.  He  anticipated  Arminius  in  his  view  of  the 
grace  of  Christ.  He  would  not  have  any  man  claim  sal- 
vation for  his  own  good  works,  but  it  was  even  more 
abhorrent  to  his  soul  that  any  should  claim  salvation 
through  the  bare  merits  of  Christ,  without  their  own  per- 
sonal obedience.  He  taught  that  a  virtuous  life  is  the 
proper  evidence  of  faith,  and  that  the  life  acceptable  to 
God  is  one  in  which  the  love  and  good  works  of  Jesus  are 
repeated.  His  views  of  practical  duty,  too,  were  in  har- 
mony with  this  theory.  The  punishment  of  death  seemed 
to  him  barbarous  in  principle  and  of  doubtful  utility.. 
Aggressive  warfare  was  a  monstrous  perversion  of  justice 
and  love.  He  would  not  have  men  do  evil  for  the  sake  of 
possible  good,  or  violate  God's  laws  in  the  pretence  of  serv- 
ing him.  The  use  of  deadly  weapons,  except  for  purposes  of 
self  defense,  he  held  to  be  contrary  to  the  Christian  spirit. 
All  luxury  and  vain  show,  all  avarice  and  sordid  lust  of 
gain,  all  uncleanness,  whether  of  person,  word  or  thought, 
was  a  hindrance  in  his  view,  to  the  Gospel  in  the  heart.  If 
he  prized  the  rite  of  baptism  less  as  an  ordinance,  he 
prized  it  more  as  a  symbol.  As  applied  to  infants  it 
seemed  to  him  but  a  form.  But  as  received  bv  the  mature 
man,  it  fitly  presented  the  proper  purification  of  the  spirit. 
The  Lord's  Supper  was  to  him  not  a  mystical  feast,  but  a 
fraternal  commemoration  of  the  Saviour's  dying  love. 

One  word  may  be  added  on  the  idea  of  the  church 
which  Socinus  gave.  "The  church,"  he  says,  "is  either 
visible  or  invisible.  The  visible  church  is  an  assembly  of 
men,  who  hold  and  profess  so  much  of  the  true  religion  of 
Christ  as  is  necessary  to  salvation.  The  invisible  church 
is  an  assembly  of  men  who  have  a  genuine  and  justifying 
faith  in  Christ,  and  who  are  scattered  over  the  world.  The 
visible  church  may  be  considered  as  one  body,  because  it 


366  THE  SOCINI. 


comprehends  all  the  particular  churches  or  assemblies  of 
those  who  profess  the  Christian  doctrine  of  salvation  as 
its  members.  Any  single  society,  and  so  any,  as  it  were, 
single  member  of  the  body  we  have  spoken  of,  belonging 
to  the  universal  church,  may  be  deemed  and  called  a 
church,  which  distinction  does  not  hold  with  respect  to  the 
invisible  church. 

In  regard  to  the  ministry,  Socinus  taught  that  its  author- 
ity came  not  from  a  transmitted  virtue,  but  from  the  free 
choice  of  the  people.  The  pastor  of  every  congregation 
should  be  one  whom  they  have  selected  from  his  superior 
wisdom  and  piety  to  explain  to  them  the  sacred  word  and 
to  show  them  the  issues  of  iheir  sin.  His  power  with  the 
people  was  the  power  of  the  truth  which  he  preached,  and  he 
had  no  right  to  compel  any  to  assent  to  his  opinion.  All 
action  within  the  church  should  be  done  by  the  votes  of  its 
members,  and  none  should  be  hindered  from  the  free  ex- 
pression of  his  views.  The  people  might  admonish  the 
minister,  if  they  saw  anything  in  his  character  or  conduct 
inconsistent  with  his  office.  The  system  of  Socinus  was 
what  we  call  Congregational ;  and  we  live  under  a  form  of 
church  discipline  and  order  which  he  proved  to  be  Scrip- 
tural and  rational,  just  alike  to  the  minister  and  people, 
and  consistent  with  the  Saviour's  word. 

Such  was  the  scheme  of  doctrine  embodied  in  the  cate- 
chism of  the  Unitarian  Church  of  Poland,  and  compiled 
from  the  writings  of  Socinus,  and  published  in  the  year 
1609.  It  was  dedicated  to  James  I.  of  England,  and 
found  soon  many  adherents  in  the  English  realm.  In 
eleven  sections  it  treats  of  the  great  doctrines  and  duties 
of  the  Gospel,  and  its  conciseness,  its  perspicuity,  its  hu- 
mane and  generous  spirit,  its  comprehensive  morality,  and 
its  genuine  piety,  have  extorted  for  it  the  admiration  of 
the  most  orthodox  historians.  It  has  always  been  the 
pride  of  the  Socinian  chuches,  and  after  centuries  of  per- 
secution, which  they  have  passed  in  defending  it,  they  may 
be  pardoned  in  regarding  it  to-day  as  hardly  less  than  in- 
spired. Few  of  the  more  famous  doctors  of  the  church 
have  left  such  a  monument  of  their  genius  and  faith.  We 
here  may  justly  prize  the  early  testimony  to  what  we  believe 
is  to  be  at  some  time  the  faith  of  the  universal  church. 


THE  SO  C  IN  I.  3^7 


The  fame  of  Socinus  rests  not  on  the  short  story  of  his 
life,  but  on  this  better  creed  than  the  creeds  of  the  coun- 
cils. From  his  sound  beginning  the  great  order  of  the 
ages  has  yet  to  grow. 

It  does  not  fall  within  my  plan  here  to  tell  the  hard  for- 
tunes of  the  Socinian  party — what  injuries  they  bore, 
what  changes  came  over  their  fraternities.  No  sadder 
chapter  in  the  history  of  religion  is  written  ;  but  it  belongs 
to  a  later  age.  Socinus  left  at  his  death  a  strong  and 
hopeful  party.  And  his  early  followers  so  shared  his 
spirit  that  an  English  archbishop  could  say  of  them,  when 
half  a  century  had  passed,  that  they  were  the  strongest 
managers  of  a  weak  cause,  and  were  in  heart  and  head 
above  the  doctors  of  every  communion. 


368  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 


XV. 

THE   PURITANS    OF   ENGLAND. 

"  So  absolute,  indeed,  was  the  authority  of  the  crown, 
that  the  precious  spark  of  Liberty  had  been  kindled  "and 
was  preserved  by  the  Puritans  alone  ;  and  it  was  to  this 
sect,  whose  principles  appear  so  frivolous,  and  habits  so 
ridiculous,  that  the  English  owe  the  whole  freedom  of 
their  constitution."  Such  is  the  testimony  which  the 
philosophic  historian  of  England,  who  hated  the  manners 
and  despised  the  dogmas  of  the  Puritan  fanatics,  is  con- 
strained to  bear  to  their  influence  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth. 
Hume  would  gladly  have  avoided,  if  he  might,  an  admis- 
sion so  troublesome  to  his  favorite  skepticism.  But  no 
prejudice  could  cover  for  him  the  great  fact  which  the 
succeeding  centuries  have  only  continued  to  interpret  on 
both  sides  of  the  ocean,  that  these  contemptible  Puritans 
have  been  the  chief  architects  of  civil  and  religious  free- 
dom. The  spirit  of  individual  right,  which  they  fixed  for- 
ever in  the  statutes  of  the  English  realm,  gave  to  the 
philosopher  the  chance  to  publish  unmolested  his  infidel 
opinions,  and  substituted  the  grave  answers  of  respectful 
arguments  for  the  rack  and  the  fire  by  which  skepticism 
like  his  in  an  earlier  day  would  have  been  speedily  si- 
lenced. It  is  to  the  very  men,  whose  grotesque  exterior 
and  whose  blind  enthusiasm  are  matter  for  satire  to  the 
wits  and  scholars  of  the  eighteenth  century,  that  these  owe 
their  freedom  to  laugh  at  things  sacred,  and  to  set  before 
the  world  their  sophisms  and  their  blasphemies. 

No  candid  writer  to-day,  whatever  his  estimate  of  the 
character  or  the  theologv  of  the  Puritans,  will  venture  to 
deny  the  statement  of  Hume,  made  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury ago.  Indeed,  in  these  last  days,  men  of  all  parties 
vie  with  each  other  in  extolling  the  people  whose  name  in 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND.  3^9 


their  own  day  was  a  synonym  with  the  learned  for  narrow 
bigotry,  and  with  the  refined  for  disgusting  cant.  The 
American  Anglo-Catholic  even,  in  whom  mental  hallucina- 
tion in  this  dav  seems  to  reach  its  extreme,  saves  his  talk 
about  the  English  Rebellion  and  Archbishop  Laud  from 
perfect  imbecility  by  admitting  that  the  Puritans  loved 
liberty  and  established  it.  Even  the  crazy  Romanist  of 
New  England  apologizes  for  the  hard  words  which  his  sys- 
tem compels  him  to  say  about  the  sect  which  produced 
such  men  as  Cartwright,  Pym,  Hampden  and  Winthrop, 
and  keeps  pride  in  his  lineage,  though  he  hates  the  faith 
which  his  ancestors  prized.  A  reactionary  criticism,  in- 
deed, delights  just  now  to  fasten  upon  the  weak  points  of 
the  Puritan  character;  and  men  who  have  not  manliness 
enough  to  understand  its  self-sacrifice  will  enlarge  upon 
its  harshness,  its  tyranny  and  its  hatred  of  beauty.  The 
class  of  amateur  Christians,  to  whom  groined  arches,  and 
costly  pews,  and  luxurious  music,  and  a  sweet-voiced, 
fashionable  preacher  make  the  substance  of  religion,  are 
given  now  to  thank  God  that  the  Puritan  Church  exists 
no  longer,  and  that  those  grim  sectarians  are  all  in  their 
graves.  The  worshippers  of  Pagan  art  who  go  mad  before 
an  undraped  statue,  wonder  how  men  existed  in  the  days 
when  truth  and  law  was  so  much  more  than  beauty.  It  is 
quite  common  now  to  hear  beardless  youths,  whose  infor- 
mation on  the  Puritans  is  derived  from  the  vivacious  pages 
of  the  lighter  magazines — a  class  of  works  into  the  secret 
of  which  the  soul  of  no  Puritan  could  ever  come — passing 
severe  judgment  upon  the  men  who  have  left  Old  and  New 
England  what  they  are  to-day.  But  when  candor,  and 
learning,  and  philosophy,  and  genius  and  piety  to-day 
speak  about  the  Puritans,  they  magnify  this  name.  The 
ringing  sentences  of  Macaulay,  which  thrill  every  school- 
boy as  he  reads,  summon  for  us  the  array  of  praying  war- 
riors, with  their  sad,  determined  constancy,  and  their 
terrible  faith  in  God.  The  quaint  sharpness  of  Carlyle's 
tangled  stvle  shows  us  in  clear  outline  from  the  Puritan 
stock  the  genuine  heroic  profile.  The  swelling  periods  of 
our  native  historian,  Bancroft,  rise  to  the  dignity  of  elo- 
quence when  his  filial  reverence  turns  to  describe  the  vir- 
tues and  glory  of  his  fathers.  Even  the  French  Stoic, 
24 


370  THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND. 

calm  in  his  praises  of  the  liberals  and  the  zealots  of  his 
own  brilliant  nation,  chooses  for  his  warmest  eulosT  the 
Calvinists  of  England  and  the  statesmen  of  the  Common- 
wealth ;  and  Guizot  has  said  what  Mackintosh  was  always 
hoping  to  say.  The  scholarship  of  New  England  has 
widely  departed  from  the  creed  of  the  Puritans.  The 
stvle  of  life  and  the  style  of  thought  for  which  they  suf- 
fered and  fought  has  become  curious,  almost  obsolete  in 
its  chief  features  in  the  land  which  they  colonized.  Their 
descendants  worship  now  to  the  sound  of  organs  and  in 
the  sight  of  colors,  and  dread  the  tedious  sermons  to  which 
thev  thronged  with  delight.  The  sports  which  they  pro- 
scribed are  commended  now,  and  the  Sunday  which  we 
keep  is  not  the  Sabbath  wdiich  they  sanctified.  Yet  the 
scholars  and  preachers  of  this  land  are  loyal  to  their  her- 
itasre,  love  to  renew  the  memory  of  their  Pils^rim  fathers, 
and  describe  still  in  sermon  and  sonor  the  worth  which 
thev  have  learned  from  childhood  to  honor.  When  the 
anniversary  of  their  winter  landins:  returns,  in  what  affec- 
tionate  fervor  their  tale  is  repeated,  and  the  proud  fulfil- 
ment of  their  hope  contrasted  with  the  pains  which  they 
bore.  I  have  read  a  dowinsf  tribute  to  their  memory  from 
a  descendant  on  the  Pacific  shores,  where  thirty  years  ago 
there  was  an  unbroken  wilderness. 

The  materials  for  a  just  estimate  of  the  character  and 
influence  of  the  Puritans  are  ample.  From  every  point  of 
view'  they  have  been  criticised,  and  have  passed  the  ordeal 
alike  of  party  brand,  of  sectarian,  of  literary  and  of  aesthetic 
judgment.  The  high  tory  and  the  flaming  radical,  the 
Romanist,  the  churchman,  and  the  dissenter  of  many  de- 
grees, the  lyceum  lecturer  and  the  college  professor,  have 
taken  care  to  make  the  world  familiar  with  these  singular 
men.  The  relics  of  their  industry  in  every  department 
are  abundant.  The  tomes  of  their  theolosfv  still  lend 
weight  to  the  libraries  of  divines,  and  many  ministers  still 
delight  in  the  solid  thoughts  of  Baxter  and  Owen,  of  Chav- 
nock  and  Howe.  The  epic  of  their  great  poet  is  one  of 
the  world's  classics  ;  no  library  is  complete  without  the 
Paradise  Lost;  and  no  student  has  learned  of  what  the 
composite  English  tongue  is  capable,  unless  he  has  spoken 
the  grand  sentences,  Saxon  in  their  nerve  and  classic  in 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  371 


their  roundness,  of  the  prose  works  of  John  Milton.  Who 
has  not  followed  the  pilgrim's  progress  as  the  Puritan 
Bunvan  has  marked  it  ?  What  fi2:ure  stands  out  more 
clear  before  us  from  history  than  the  fisfure  of  Cromwell, 
the  plebeian  ruler,  whom  Nature  made  for  a  despot,  but 
whose  religion  so  teinpered  his  ambition  that  he  stays  in 
perpetual  contrast  with  the  upstart  tyrant  of  France.  And 
whose  words  of  cheer  and  prophecy  are  uttered  so  often, 
the  blazon  of  progress  and  faith,  as  those  noble  parting 
words  of  the  Leyden  pastor,  "  I  am  verily  persuaded  that 
the  Lord  has  more  truth  yet  to  break  out  from  His  holy 
word."  Truly,  the  educated  child  of  New  England  parent- 
age may  write  from  his  memory  alone  about  the  Puritans 
and  not  write  amiss.  If  he  mistake  about  these  men,  it 
must  be  through  wilful  blindness. 

It  would  be  a  needless  rashness,  therefore,  in  me,  to  at- 
tempt here  an  original  estimate  of  the  Puritan  character, 
or  to  trace  the  issues  of  their  movement  in  the  free  insti- 
tutions of  England  and  America,  when  the  most  popular 
English  historians  of  both  hemispheres  have  done  this  so 
brilliantly.  I  shall  go  back  to  the  origin  of  the  Puritan 
sect,  and  dwell  upon  the  causes  of  the  movement  and  its 
earlier  developments,  and  leave  aside  the  tempting  pas- 
sages of  the  Commonwealth  and  the  civil  wars,  in  which 
Puritanism  proved  itself  in  parliament  and  the  field,  bran- 
dished its  secular  weapons,  and  wore  its  invincible  armor. 
The  pictures  of  its  early  fortunes  and  sorrows  have,  per- 
haps, a  feebler  coloring,  and  we  cannot  eliminate  from 
them  such  striking  portraits.  The  names  of  which  Puri- 
tanism makes  boast  come  chieflv  in  the  later  reisrns  of 
Charles  and  his  successors.  But  there  is  enouofh  in  the 
martyr  period  of  the  sect  to  attract  our  thoughtful  regard. 
The  persecuted  preachers  of  Elizabeth's  reign  were  the 
worthy  precursors  of  the  statesmen  of  the  Commonwealth. 
Cartwriiiht  was  not  unworthv  to  be  forerunner  to  Milton. 

The  name  Puritans  was  not  new  in  its  application  to  a 
party  in  the  English  Church.  In  the  third  centurv  after 
Christ,  the  word  Cathari^  or  pure^  had  been  applied  to  a 
sect  which  denied  the  need  of  many  ceremonies  or  much 
display  in  the  administration  of  worship.  In  the  year 
1564,  it  began  to  be  used  by  a  similar  portion  of  the  sub- 


372  THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND. 

jects  of  Elizabeth.  The  Reformation  of  the  English 
Church  had  now  reached  a  point  when  all  danger  of  a 
return  to  Rome  seemed  to  be  over.  The  atrocities  of 
Mary's  rule  had  confirmed  the  Protestant  spirit  of  the  na- 
tion, and  with  the  expiring  Smithfield  fires  fell  the  last  hope 
of  regaining  England  to  the  authority  of  ultramontane 
rule.  The  exiles  of  faith,  returning  from  their  continental 
homes,  brought  with  them  an  aversion  to  Popish  rites  and 
practices  which  they  would  fain  settle  into  law.  They 
hoped  great  things  from  the  known  firmness  and  the  Prot- 
estant education  of  the  new  queen.  The  daughter  of  Anne 
Boleyn  could  never  forgive  the  power  which  had  slan- 
dered her  mother,  and  could  never  imitate  the  acts  of  that 
sister  whose  unlawful  supremacy  had  postponed  her  own 
royal  accession.  But  it  was  soon  found  that  little  favor 
to  religion  was  to  be  looked  for  from  the  cold-hearted, 
self-willed,  violent  heir  to  the  temper  of  Henry  VIII. 
Elizabeth  was  a  Protestant  indeed,  so  far  as  hatred  to 
Rome  went,  but  not  in  loving  the  ritual  or  principles  of 
the  Protestants.  She  had  no  idea  of  encouraging  freedom 
of  will  or  freedom  of  thought  among  her  subjects.  She 
dreaded  the  intrusion  of  ideas  which  might  conflict  with 
her  prerogative.  Fond  of  display,  she  coveted  the  splen- 
did apparatus  of  the  Catholic  service  to  add  to  the  dig- 
nity of  her  religious  supremacy.  The  doctrines  of  the 
ancient  Church  she  had  not  renounced.  The  sacrifice  of 
the  mass  she  pretended  still  to  believe  in,  and  authorized 
the  sign  of  the  cross  in  her  chapels.  She  wanted  prelates 
to  discipline  the  church  to  her  use  and  will,  and  hated 
preachers  who  felt  a  motion  to  declare  the  word  of  God. 
Everything  which  might  keep  and  establish  the  majestic 
order  of  the  old  hierarchy  she  favored.  Everything  which 
tended  to  simplify  religion,  or  awaken  idea  in  the  place  of 
form,  she  obstinately  resisted.  Neither  the  sagacity  of  her 
counsellors  nor  the  entreaties  of  her  bishops  could  soften 
her  arrogant  resolve.  Heresy  was  to  her  less  malignant 
than  schism  ;  she  could  pardon  unsoundness  in  faith  bet- 
ter than  uneasiness  in  service.  At  the  beginning  of  her 
reign,  she  found  it  difficult  to  force  the  English  prelates 
into  conformity  with  her  views.  But  when  her  determina- 
tion became  manifest,  the  reluctant  loyalty  of  these  men 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  373 

consented,  and  they  became  partners  in  a  persecution 
whicli  they  had  learned  before  to  abhor.  Two  parties 
greeted  her  accession.  The  one  was  the  English  party 
proper,  who  had  taken  pride  in  their  exile  in  holding  to 
all  the  customs  and  institutions  of  their  native  land,  and 
had  refused  in  Frankfort  and  Geneva  to  identify  them- 
selves with  the  system  of  foreigners  ;  who  wished  to  show 
that  they  were  loyal,  though  afflicted,  and  did  not  change 
their  hearts,  though  they  might  change  their  sky.  The 
other  party  was  the  Puritan  party,  who  counted  the  re- 
form unfinished  in  their  own  land,  and  gladly  availed 
themselves  of  the  chance  of  exile  to  study  the  creeds  and 
the  system  of  the  foreign  reformers.  These  remembered 
the  noble  refusal  of  the  martyred  Hooper  to  wear  at  his 
consecration  the  robes  of  a  superstitious  church.  They 
had  treasured  up  the  arguments  of  those  doctors  who  had 
declared  in  the  reigns  of  Edward  and  Mary  that  a  half 
reform  was  contemptible,  and  that  compromise  with  Anti- 
christ was  an  insult  to  God,  and  had  suffered  for  their 
bold  avow^al.  The  middle  way  of  the  more  moderate 
party  seemed  to  them  at  once  mean  and  dangerous,  lack- 
ing the  first  principle  of  all  true  protest.  They  found  in 
Geneva  the  model  of  a  rational  and  scriptural  church  in 
which  freedom  and  order  existed  side  by  side,  and  moral 
purity  was  the  crown  of  their  union.  Fierce  disputes  arose 
between  these  parties  even  in  the  time  of  their  exile.  The 
encroaching  zeal  of  the  Puritans  did  not  conciliate  their 
adversaries.  Their  doctrinal  unity  only  made  their  an- 
tipathy of  system  worse,  as  family  quarrels  are  worse  than 
all  other ;  and  they  brought  back  to  England  a  rooted 
jealousy.  It  became  soon  evident  that  the  adhesion  of 
the  queen  to  the  principles  of  the  Church  party  proper 
would  not  be  meekly  assented  to.  If  the  Puritans  were 
not  formidable  by  numbers,  they  were  well  officered  by 
men  of  learning,  and  they  had  on  their  side  a  trenchant 
and  ready  logic,  and  a  terrible  earnestness.  Their  preach- 
ers were  men  of  the  people,  and  the  bishops  knew  enough 
of  the  English  people  to  feel  that  there  was  danger  in 
irritating  too  far  the  masters  of  the  popular  mind.  The 
wiser  among  them  advised  concession  and  objected  to  any 
process  which  should  force  recusants  to  violate  their  con- 


374  THE  PUniTANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

sciences  in  their  submission  to  external  forms.  But  Eliza- 
beth was  not  to  be  reasoned  with.  She  asked  not  advis- 
ers, but  only  instruments  of  her  will  and  pleasure. 

On  the  twenty-fourth  of  June,  1559,  the  famous  act  of 
uniformity  became  a  law  throug-hout  the  En^^lish  realm. 
By  this  act,  all  ministers  were  required  to  conform  in  dis- 
cipline and  in  ritual  to  the  canons  of  the  Church  as  laid 
down  in  the  prayer-book  of  King  Edward,  under  severe 
penalties.  The  first  opponents  were  of  the  Catholic  party, 
and  all  the  bishops  but  one  of  Queen  Mary's  reign  refused 
to  sign,  and  left  their  offices.  Twelve  months  passed  be- 
fore men  could  be  found  to  accept  the  vacant  places  in 
sufficient  numbers  to  consecrate  the  new  archbishop.  And 
when  Matthew  Parker  was  solemnly  ordained  to  the  prima- 
cy, the  absence  was  noted  of  many  of  the  ceremonies  and 
vestures  which  usually  accompanied  that  service.  The 
new  archbishop  executed  most  unwillingly  at  first  the 
rigorous  provisions  of  the  new  act.  He  felt  at  every  step 
that  he  was  strengthening  public  opinion  against  the 
Church.  And  though  he  had  a  heart  not  averse  to  perse- 
cution, and  was  not  troubled  by  any  compassionate  feel- 
ings for  the  sufferers,  he  tried  every  expedient  to  evade 
the  impolitic  service  which  the  instances  of  his  royal  mis- 
tress pressed  upon  him.  The  fifteen  years  of  his  ecclesi- 
astic rule  were,  on  the  whole,  more  favorable  to  the  growth 
of  the  Puritan  sect  than  might  have  been  expected  from 
his  habits  and  character.  There  were  instances  of  cru- 
elty, indeed,  and  burnings  at  the  stake  on  trifling  pre- 
texts. Some  were  exiled.  Some  were  imprisoned.  Many 
were  deprived  of  their  livings.  They  were  insulted  by  the 
mockery  of  trials.  Their  arguments  were  answered  by 
sneers  and  their  plea  of  conscience  was  laughed  at.  Some 
conformed,  with  mental  reservations,  as  many  do  in  sign- 
ing the  creeds  to-day.  But  a  large  body,  who  go  by  the 
name  in  history  of  non-conformists,  utterly  refused. 

It  is  proper  to  state  the  grounds  of  the  non-conformists, 
that  we  may  know  exactly  what  it  was  which  separated 
our  Puritan  fathers  from  the  national  Church.  In  doctrine 
they  did  not  differ  substantially  from  the  dominant  body. 
The  Arminian  theory  had  not  yet  been  adopted  into  the 
English   liturgy,    and    the   peculiar  views   of   the   Romish 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  375 

Church  had  bf.en  dropped  from  the  creed.  It  was  heresy 
to  teach  the  "real  presence,"  and  John  Knox  found  sym- 
pathy among  English  prelates  for  his  ultra-Calvinistic 
views.  Doctrinal ly,  the  Church  of  Elizabeth,  and  of  those 
who  protested,  were  one.  But  the  general  objections  of 
the  Puritans  to  the  Church  were  summed  under  nine 
general  heads. 

First — They  denied  that  the  bishop  had  any  superior 
right  over  his  brethren  in  the  ministry,  or  any  title  to  lord- 
ship in  the  state,  and  protested  against  the  supremacy  and 
the  worldliness  of  the  Episcopal  class.  Second — They 
held  that  the  subordinate  offices  of  deans,  archdeacons, 
etc.,  in  which  the  Church  abounded,  were  unlawful  and 
unscriptural.  Third — They  declared  that  the  bishop  had 
no  right  of  excommunication  or  punishment,  no  right  to 
depose,  line  or  imprison  men  by  virtue  of  his  office,  and 
contended  that  such  acts  belonged  exclusively  to  the  secu- 
lar power.  Fourth — They  denied  that  the  bishop  had  any 
right  to  admit  members  to  the  Church  on  his  own  respon- 
sibility, and  contended  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  brethren 
of  the  Church  to  decide  upon  the  fitness  of  members 
Fifth — To  many  parts  of  the  liturgy  they  took  serious  ex- 
ception, especially  to  parts  of  the  marriage  and  burial  ser- 
vice, and  to  the  frequent  responses,  which  they  considered 
unmeaning  and  impertinent.  The  apocryphal  books  they 
rejected.  Sixth — They  insisted  that  preaching  was  the 
most  important  part  of  public  worship.  A  man  might 
pray  in  private,  but  he  went  to  church  to  hear  the  word  of 
God  explained.  They  opposed,  therefore,  all  sinecures  in 
the  Church,  all  mere  reading  of  a  set  written  form.  Sev- 
enth— They  repudiated  the  whole  system  of  church  festivals 
and  fasts  as  savoring  of  Popery,  and  unwarranted  by  Scrip- 
ture, would  not  keep  saint-days,  Easter.  Christmas  or  Lent, 
but  insisted  that  the  Sunday  was  the  Christian  sabbath,  to 
be  kept  with  the  strictest  holiness.  Eighth — They  vehe- 
mently opposed  the  profane  pomp  of  worship,  as  they 
deemed  it,  especially  in  chanting  the  prayers  and  in  the 
use  of  musical  instruments,  and  argued  that  they  were  the 
late  innovations  of  luxury  upon  worship.  Their  ninth  ob- 
jection, apparently  most  trivial  of  all,  was  in  reality  most 
influential  and  grave.     It  pointed  out  numerous  particu- 


376  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

lars  in  the  rubric  which  savored  of  superstition,  and  justi- 
fied false  views  of  Christian  duty.  There  was  the  sign  of 
the  cross  in  baptism,  of  which  they  doubted  the  sense ; 
there  was  the  bow  at  tlie  name  of  Jesus,  which  seemed  to 
them  to  imply  that  Jesus  was  greater  than  God,  that  the 
Son  was  more  worthy  of  honor  than  the  Father ;  there  was 
the  change  of  raiment  during  service,  as  if  prayer  de- 
rived sanctity  from  the  dress  of  the  priest,  or  could  not  be 
offered  as  truly  in  a  black  gown  as  a  white  one,  as  if  sim- 
plicity were  not  more  acceptable  to  God  than  show ;  there 
was  the  whole  formula  of  marriage,  and  especially  its  ring, 
which  seemed  to  them  worse  than  folly,  since  it  favored 
the  idea  that  marriage  was  a  sacrament,  instead  of  a  civil 
contract;  there  was  the  kneeling  to  receive  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per, a  posture  hostile  to  the  idea  of  a  feast  of  communion, 
and  tending  to  show  a  humility  before  men  rather  than  God  ; 
there  was  the  folly  of  godfathers  and  godmothers  stand- 
ing sponsors  for  children  in  whom  they  had  no  natural 
right,  and  hindering  the  proper  obligation  of  parents ; 
all  these  and  more  abuses  were  denounced  by  the  Puritans 
as  needless,  profane  and  irreligious  in  their  tendency.  On 
these  points  they  took  issue  with  the  national  Church  and 
insisted  upon  reform  in  each  and  all.  For  these  they  ar- 
gued, voted  and  suffered.  They  preached  in  their  churches 
against  these  relics  of  Popery,  and  they  confessed  without 
fear  before  the  courts  that  to  all  these  things  they  were 
hostile. 

The  immediate  successor  of  Parker  in  the  archbishop's 
chair,  Edmund  Grindal,  whose  learning  and  eloquence 
had  raised  him  to  a  station  of  which  the  mildness  of  his 
temper  seemed  to  unfit  him  to  exercise  the  authority,  pur- 
sued with  the  Puritans  the  policy  of  conciliation  ;  nor  could 
the  threats,  or  even  the  punishments  which  the  queen 
bestowed  upon  him,  induce  him  to  act  the  part  of  a  perse- 
cutor. He  loved  the  system  of  Calvin  too  well  to  deal 
harshly  with  its  adherents.  And  though  he  indignantly 
repelled  the  accusation  of  being  a  Puritan,  and  pretended 
that  he  was  a  zealous  friend  to  the  Establishment,  it  is 
certain  that  many  of  the  contumacious  preachers  were  left 
unmolested  in  sowing  their  sedition.  Their  places  of  wor- 
ship were  resorted  to,  to  the  neglect  of  the  parish  churches. 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND,  377 

The  men  and  ladies  of  noble  families  went  to  visit  them  in 
prison ;  and  their  writings  were  preserved  and  prized. 
The  eight  years  of  Grindal's  primacy  gave  the  Puritans 
abundant  chances  to  explain  and  commend  their  doc- 
trines, and  to  justify  before  the  people  their  contumacy  in 
resisting  abuses. 

But  the  death  of  this  prelate,  in  the  year  1583,  changed 
at  once  their  prospects.  Dr.  John  Whitgift,  the  champion 
of  the  Church  in  the  halls  of  debate,  a  man  of  great  abil- 
ity and  acuteness,  but  of  an  energy  and  iron  will  after  the 
queen's  own  heart,  was  raised  to  the  vacant  see.  Whit- 
gift hated  the  Puritans  with  all  the  vehemence  of  his  fiery 
nature.  He  remembered  how  Thomas  Cartwright  had  ven- 
tured to  dispute  with  him  at  Cambridge,  and  what  the 
popular  verdict  was  upon  their  reasoning.  He  rejoiced 
in  the  occasion  of  now  venting  that  wrath  which  want  of 
power  for  so  many  years  had  compelled  him  to  restrain. 
He  decreed  that  no  Puritan  minister  should  teach  in  the 
English  land.  All  non-conforming  ministers  were  sus- 
pended from  their  official  functions.  They  went  out  into 
the  fields  and  woods,  but  it  was  declared  a  crime  to  hear 
them  there.  It  became  daniierous  for  the  nobles  to  har- 
bor  Puritans  in  their  houses.  The  haughty  sovereign 
commended  her  archbishop,  and  though  her  civil  minis- 
ters remonstrated  and  pointed  out  the  sure  disaster  of 
alienating  so  large  a  portion  of  intelligent  and  influential 
men,  she  justified  the  establishment  of  a  Court  of  High 
Commission,  whose  business  it  should  be  to  hunt  out  and 
punish  Puritans.  Many  thought  of  the  Inquisition,  and 
some  dared  to  say — even  privy  counsellors  to  her  Majesty 
— that  it  was  only  the  introduction  to  England,  under  an- 
other name,  of  that  infamous  tribunal.  But  it  was  de- 
creed, and  it  pursued  with  vigor  its  fatal  work.  It  sent 
spies  into  the  houses  even  of  faithful  churchmen,  and  dif- 
fused everywhere  fear,  distrust  and  indignation.  The 
result  was  what  might  have  been  foreseen.  The  con- 
sciences of  men  could  not  be  forced.  And  the  zeal  of  the 
Puritans  took  on  the  darker  fire  of  a  sullen  vengeance. 

In  the  beginning  the  Puritans  were  far  from  wishing  to 
be  schismatics,  or  to  break  their  connection  with  the 
Church  in  their  land.     Tiiey  would  gladly  have  retained 


378  THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND. 

its  offices,  and  they  were  true  Englishmen  in  their  unwil- 
lingness to  rebel.  They  wanted  to  reform  the  Church, 
not  to  break  from  it.  They  wanted  to  purify  the  altar 
already  built,  not  to  build  a  rival  altar.  But  now  oppres- 
sion drove  them  to  more  radical  thoughts.  Was  it  need- 
ful to  bear  any  longer  with  that  which  so  cruelly  cast  them 
out.'*  Was  that  a  true  Church  of  Christ  which  kept  so 
many  of  the  features  of  the  false  Church  at  Rome  ? 
Should  they  try  any  farther  to  redeem  what  God  had 
evidently  maddened  to  its  own  destruction  ?  The  Bible, 
newly  translated,  helped  the  Puritans  to  decide  their 
course.  They  compared  the  Church  of  Elizabeth  with 
the  model  of  that  hierarchy  which  God,  through  Moses, 
founded,  and  saw  how  widely  it  lacked  the  old  Hebrew 
strength,  simplicity  and  reverence.  They  seemed  to  be 
the  remnant  of  the  faithful  in  an  idolatrous  nation.  And 
though  loyal  still  to  the  crown,  ready  to  fight  in  the  armies 
of  the  queen  and  to  pray  against  her  enemies,  they  began  to 
meditate  their  mission  as  the  heralds  of  a  new  crusade. 
The  time  had  not  come  for  an  outbreak.  The  day  of  sub- 
mission was  not  over.  The  wilderness  wandering  had  not 
fulfilled  its  forty  years.  But  the  queen  could  not  live  for- 
ever. And  it  was  permitted  then  to  look  with  longing  to 
the  prospect  of  another  freer  rule  when  their  childless 
tvrant  should  be  laid  with  her  fathers.  The  heir  to  the 
throne  was  nurtured  in  a  church  modelled  more  on  the 
apostolic  plan.  The  people  of  Scotland  had  now  banished 
all  prelacy  from  their  borders,  and  installed  the  ideas  and 
customs  of  the  Church  at  Geneva.  The  encouraging  word 
of  Knox  and  Maitland  came  to  remind  them  that  God  was 
living,  and  a  just  God  would  care  for  his  own.  And  great 
thoughts  of  the  future  consoled  them  for  their  present 
affliction.  It  became  their  duty  now  in  every  lawful  way 
to  accustom  men  to  liberal  ideas  of  church  law,  and  to 
prepare  the  way  for  an  overthrow  of  the  Episcopal  power. 
Driven  out  from  the  churches,  the  Puritans  claimed  their 
place  as  citizens  and  statesmen  in  the  popular  branch  of 
parliament.  Questions  of  prerogative  came  to  discussion 
at  that  bar,  where  the  votes  of  the  people  fixed  their  rights 
and  gave  to  the  crown  its  supplies.  There  were  not  want- 
ing those  who  hinted  that  an  outraged  people  might  be 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND.  379 

constrained  to  resist  by  force  what  they  could  not  conquer 
by  pleading.  Cartwright  had  declared  that  the  enemies  of 
God's  Church  might  deserve  death  as  well  as  common 
murderers.  And  the  Saxon  lineage  of  his  followers  pre- 
pared them  to  take  the  field,  like  Israel  of  old,  in  defense 
of  their  faith.  The  ministry,  ejected  from  their  pulpits, 
found  places  to  speak  and  multitudes  to  listen.  The  spies 
of  the  archbishop  could  not  frighten  them  from  the  duty 
of  prophesying.  "Woe  is  me,"  was  their  language,  *' if  1 
preach  not  the  counsel  of  God  unto  you."  The  greater 
danger  only  added  to  the  vehemence.  What  they  could 
not  do  so  safely  or  so  often,  they  did  more  intensely.  If 
the  churches  could  not  add  the  associations  of  familiar 
worship  to  their  meetings,  they  had  the  Bible,  and  carried 
it  with  them,  and  could  expound  from  it  the  truths  of  sal- 
vation wherever  men  gathered  to  listen.  The  words  of  the 
prophets  could  ring  with  as  clear  a  sound,  though  heard 
along  the  highway,  as  within  sacred  walls. 

Fanatics  are  appointed  in  God's  providence  to  go  before 
every  moral  and  religious  movement,  and  to  utter  in  ex- 
travagant speech  its  inspirations.  They  offend  the  taste 
and  the  prudence  of  those  who  stop  to  reason,  but  they 
declare  a  word  which  prudence  and  culture  will  take  up  and 
apply.  It  is  unjust  and  unwise  to  condemn  for  their  vio- 
lence those  in  whom  sincerity  and  zeal  outruns  discretion. 
The  Puritans  had  their  fanatics,  who  became  party  lead- 
ers, and  perilled  the  cause  of  religious  freedom  by  their 
untimely  violence.  Chief  among  these  was  Robert  Brown, 
who  gave  his  name  to  a  numerous  sect,  which  was  for  a 
time  confounded  with  the  whole  Puritan  party.  Brown 
was  a  young  man  of  noble  connections,  a  graduate  of  the 
Cambridge  University  and  a  clergyman  of  the  Church. 
But  his  temper  and  his  tongue  were  alike  under  weak  con- 
trol. His  opinions  prevented  him  from  gaining  any  liv- 
ing in  the  establishment.  But  in  default  of  this,  he  be- 
came an  itinerant  missionary  of  the  new  opinions,  went 
about  the  country  haranguing  against  the  ceremonies  of 
the  Church  and  the  whole  system  of  ordinations,  bishops 
and  festivals,  challenging  the  clergy  everywhere  to  debate 
with  him,  and  courting  their  violence.  He  was  imprisoned 
again  and  again,  but  only  to  boast  the  more  when  released 


380  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND, 

of  his  patience  in  bearing  hardness  and  his  resemblance 
here  to  the  great  Christian  apostle.  In  1582  he  published 
a  book  on  the  Life  and  Manners  of  True  Christians,  in 
which  he  urged  ministers  not  to  wait  for  any  official  decree, 
but  to  take  the  reformation  of  the  Church  into  their  own 
hands.  Disciples,  of  course,  thronged  around  him.  If  his 
spirit  were  not  quite  meek  and  saint-like,  nor  his  speech 
of  the  choicest,  he  would  be  a  religious  hero,  who  could 
tell  of  thirty-two  prisons  which  he  had  occupied,  some  so 
dark  that  he  could  not  see  his  hand  at  noondav.  His  con- 
gregation,  dispersed  by  royal  authority,  fixed  themselves 
at  Middleburg,  in  one  of  the  Dutch  provinces,  where  for  a 
few  years  they  kept  their  worship  and  held  together.  But 
the  character  of  their  leader  was  not  stable  enough  for  a 
quiet  life  ;  his  zeal  grew  cold ;  he  went  back  to  England, 
took  orders  in  the  Church,  became  a  profligate,  and  died 
without  reputation  at  an  advanced  age.  But  his  principles 
did  not  fall  with  his  apostasy.  The  truths  which  he  had 
spoken  took  root  in  the  hearts  of  many  more  pious  and 
faithful.  They  appealed  to  the  sober  reason  of  men  not 
easily  deluded;  and  they  attracted  many  before  John  Rob- 
inson worthy  to  be  reckoned  as  his  companions. 

The  principles  of  the  Brownists  were  few  and  simple. 
Their  model  of  discipline  was  the  Church  of  the  Apostles. 
The  centre  of  their  church  union  was  a  covenant  similar 
to  the'  New  England  covenants  to-day,  declaring  the  Bible 
and  its  ordinances  the  sole  guide  of  their  conduct.  All 
signed  this,  and  each  new  member  made  before  his  breth- 
ren profession  of  the  essentials  of  his  faith.  The  ministers 
had  no  power  but  what  the  people  gave  them.  A  majority 
of  voices  chose  them  and  ordained  their  duties.  There 
were  pastors  to  administer  the  rites  of  the  Church,  teach- 
ers to  speak  its  word,  and  elders  to  pray  with  its  sick  and 
succor  its  poor.  Every  man  had  a  right  to  question  his 
Christian  guides  as  to  their  opinions,  and  to  speak  at  the 
proper  time  and  place  any  word  which  the  spirit  might 
move  him.  All  congregations  were  independe7it.  No  min- 
ister had  any  right  out  of  his  own,  even  to  preach,  and  no 
interference  was  allowed  of  any  other  in  an  act  of  disci- 
pline. There  were  no  set  forms  of  worship.  The  govern- 
ment was  a  democracy. 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  381 

Martyrdom  sanctified  the  radicals'  theory  of  this  new 
body  of  separatists.  The  queen  chose  to  construe  a  denial 
of  her  supremacy  in  the  Church  as  treason  against  her 
state ;  and  in  spite  of  the  protest  of  the  Brownists  that 
they  were  ready  to  die  in  her  defense,  and  that  they  loved 
her  as  their  lawful  ruler,  they  were  tried  and  condemned 
as  traitors.  Henry  Bawawe,  after  Brown  the  most  zealous 
preacher  (5f  the  new  views,  with  Greenwood,  a  learned  and 
eminent  divine,  were  executed  at  Tyburn  like  the  vilest 
criminals.  The  weak  denial  of  John  Udell  of  the  party 
whose  principles  he  had  defended,  extorted  by  his  severe 
trials,  did  not  save  him  from  death  in  a  prison.  The 
Brownists  had  a  double  foe  to  contend  with — the  party  of 
the  queen  and  the  Puritan  party  proper,  whose  sympathies 
went  with  the  Presbyterians  of  Scotland  rather  than  with 
the  Independent  system.  The  beginning  of  that  long 
strife  now  appeared  which  raged  so  fiercely  in  the  wars  of 
the  next  century  and  brought  the  army  in  to  crush  the 
parliament.  The  Puritans  were  more  indignant  with  the 
Brownists,  because  they  suffered  for  the  bad  name  of  these 
men.  They  had  to  bear  the  obloquy,  as  moderate  reform- 
ers in  all  time  must,  of  the  extreme  opinions  of  their 
party.  The  repudiation  of  an  unpopular  name  did  not 
screen  them  from  the  royal  hatred.  It  mattered  little  to 
Whitgift  and  his  brethren  how  far  the  Puritans  went — 
whether  to  a  criticism  of  the  Church  forms  or  a  rejection 
of  the  whole  Church  system.  The  fault  was  in  encourag- 
ing at  all  the  rebellion.  The  archbishop  and  the  queen 
knew  but  two  parties — those  who  were  for  and  those  who 
were  against  them — and  were  as  indifferent  as  Pilate  to 
the  quarrels  of  Puritans  among  themselves.  It  was  joy 
only  to  find  such  unquestionable  fanaticism  as  might  au- 
thorize persecution.  Cartwright  and  his  brethren,  who 
would  do  everything  but  acknowledge  the  queen's  suprem- 
acy, denounced  in  vain  from  their  prison  the  excesses  of 
Racket  and  his  prophets  ;  a  raving  blasphemer,  who  called 
himself  King  Jesus  and  stirred  up  the  people  to  revolu- 
tion. The  moderate  party  failed  alike  with  the  Court  and 
the  people — with  the  Court,  because  all  shades  of  schism 
were  alike  criminal,  and  with  the  people,  because  they 
seemed  afraid  to  follow  their  principles  to  just  conclusions. 


382  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

Nobody  pitied  them  for  their  sufferings,  and  many  despised 
them  for  their  faintheartedness. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Puritan  party  made  constant  prog- 
ress. All  the  vigilance  of  Whitgift  could  not  prevent  the 
books  of  the  Reformers  from  finding  their  way  among  the 
people.  In  numerous  noble  houses  the  domestic  chaplain 
was  a  preacher  of  the  new  sect.  The  reformed  book  of 
discipline,  signed  at  first  by  more  than  eight  hundred  min- 
isters, found  sympathy  with  a  much  larger  number.  In- 
genious expedients  were  discovered  to  evade  the  law  about 
worship.  This  act,  one  of  the  most  arbitrary  and  disgrace- 
ful of  Elizabeth's  reign,  provided  that  any  who  should 
print,  write  or  speak  words  against  the  established  wor- 
ship, or  should  attend  any  unlawful  meeting,  or,  being 
above  sixteen  years  of  age,  should  fail  for  one  month  to 
hear  divine  service  in  some  regular  church  or  chapel, 
should  suffer  perpetual  banishment.  The  moderates  got 
along  with  this  last  provision  by  going  to  church  when  ser- 
vice was  almost  over  and  compromising  with  conscience  ; 
but  the  Brownists  would  not  yield,  and  mostly  went  into 
exile. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  the  year  1603,  when 
James  of  Scotland  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Elizabeth. 
The  number  of  Puritans  of  various  parties  was  estimated 
at  several  hundred  thousand,  a  considerable  portion  of 
w^hom  adopted  the  extreme  opinions.  The  Church  at 
Amsterdam  had  become  consolidated,  and  in  other  towns 
of  Holland  and  other  states  of  Europe  the  refugees  gath- 
ered their  communities  and  held  their  worship.  The  Eng- 
lish people,  weary  of  the  tyranny  of  their  arbitrary  queen, 
rejoiced  at  her  death,  and  all  believed  that  the  policy  of 
her  successor  would  lie  in  another  direction.  The  Pres- 
byterians relied  upon  his  known  and  expressed  admiration 
of  their  religious  system.  And  the  first  greetings  of  his 
reicfn  were  a  demand  of  the  Puritans  for  a  restoration  of 
their  rights  and  a  repeal  of  the  unjust  statutes  against 
them.  Before  he  entered  London,  the  great  Millenary 
petition,  subscribed  by  a  thousand  ministers,  was  put  into 
his  hands,  in  which  the  grievances  were  set  forth  and  re- 
dress demanded.  In  the  next  year  a  solemn  conference 
was  held  at  Hampton  Court  in  the  presence  of  the  king, 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND.  ^8$ 

in  which  four  leading  Puritan  divines  sustained  the  cause 
of  reform  against  all  the  chief  prelates  of  the  Church. 
The  splendor  of  attire  in  which  these  prelates  appeared, 
their  sophistry,  their  entreaties  and  their  subtle  flatteries, 
contrasted  with  the  simple,  frank  and  bold  manner  of  the 
Puritans,  fatally  wrought  upon  the  weak  mind  of  the  mon- 
arch. His  arbitrary  temper  could  not  brook  any  language 
which  savored  of  freedom.  His  manner  to  the  churchmen 
was  as  o^racious  as  it  was  harsh  to  the  Reformers.  And 
when  Whitgift  exclaimed,  in  the  utterance  of  an  opinion, 
"  undoubtedly  your  majesty  speaks  by  the  special  aid  of 
God's  spirit,"  the  submission  of  James  to  the  will  of  the 
Church  was  complete,  and  the  Puritans  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  more  to  hope  for.  The  declaratioil  of  the  king 
was  absolute,  sharp  and  final.  He  claimed  entire  con- 
formity, declared  that  he  would  have  no  judges  of  his  right 
or  authority,  and  that  he  would  harry  all  recusants,  what- 
ever their  station,  out  of  the  land.  The  stubborn  should 
hang  for  it.  He  declared  that  the  prayer-book  should  be 
the  approved  manual  of  worship,  and  confirmed  by  new 
sanctions  the  court  of  High  Commission.  His  assump- 
tions were  more  confident  from  the  pedantry  with  which 
they  were  supported.  James  imagined  himself  to  be  a 
profound  theologian  and  a  univ^ersal  scholar.  He  fell  into 
the  common  error  of  believing  himself  competent  to  decide 
points  about  which  he  had  merely  heard  others  talk.  Edu- 
cated in  the  midst  of  the  religious  controversies  of  Scot- 
land, and  wonted  to  the  long  sermons  of  those  painful 
preachers,  in  which  the  metaphysics  of  most  abstruse 
divinity  were  so  skillfully  dispensed,  he  seemed  to  himself 
to  possess  the  requisites  of  a  consummate  doctor,  and  had 
always  longed  for  a  field  where  he  might  prove  without 
hindrance  the  quality  of  his  knowledge.  In  Scotland,  he 
had  been  hampered  by  the  obstinacy  of  the  preachers,  who 
knew  his  weakness  and  would  not  flatter  it,  and  who  made 
him  a  tool  of  their  purposes.  But  in  England  he  saw  in 
the  hierarchy  a  proper  tool  of  arbitrary  power,  and  he 
eagerly  seized  it.  Here  he  could  be  a  dictator  of  faith, 
and  men  would  acknowledge  the  ability  and  the  learning 
that  his  native  land  had  so  liirhtlv  esteemed. 

His  Sacred   Majesty,  therefore   (for  that  was  the  title 


384  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

which  James  assumed),  began  by  assuring  the  Church  of 
his  favor  and  protection,  and  by  increasing  the  penalties 
of  the  Puritan  heresy,  as  he  called  it.  Three  hundred 
ministers  were  at  once  deprived  of  their  charges,  and 
Bancroft,  the  new  archbishop,  was  encouraged  to  rival 
Whitgift  in  his  execution  of  discipline.  Suspicion  of  Pu- 
ritan sentiments  became  as  bad  as  the  crime  itself.  And 
he  who  could  recommend  to  the  Dutch  states  to  burn  their 
Arminian  professor,  proved  by  various  examples  in  that 
kind  that  he  was  sincere  in  his  advice.  But  the  rack  and 
the  stake  could  not  now  hinder  the  fanaticism  which  had 
possessed  the  people.  The  strong  men,  driven  into  for- 
eign lands,  were  not  silenced.  And  the  king  was  defied  to 
seal  the  lips  which  God's  spirit  had  opened.  The  warning 
voice  of  the  great  Lord  Bacon  prophesied  of  danger  to 
come  in  such  summary  dealing.  But  the  great  philosopher 
had  learned  to  cringe,  and  James  could  not  fear  his  venal 
spirit.  Everything  seemed  to  work  against  the  Puritans 
— the  influence  of  law,  of  royalty,  of  wealth — yet  their 
numbers  increased  ;  their  zeal  waxed  warmer  ;  their  preach- 
ers discussed  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  hope  pointed 
them  vaguely  to  a  near  promised  land  of  deliverance. 
They  could  rejoice  in  the  choice  of  Abbot  as  archbishop, 
whose  suffrage  was  uniformly  given  for  liberal  and  chari- 
table measures,  and  who,  half  a  Puritan  at  heart,  would 
not  execute  the  laws  to  which  he  was  compelled  to  assent. 
The  luxurious  and  dissolute  habits  of  the  king  offered  a 
striking  contrast  to  their  stern  and  austere  sanctity.  The 
taxes  under  which  the  people  groaned  to  supply  his  ex- 
travagance, were  arguments  in  favor  of  a  purer  religion. 
They  could  take  courage  in  the  fact  that  a  new  translation 
of  the  Bible,  by  the  king's  authority,  was  now  given  to  the 
people.  The  distant  churches  of  Scotland  and  Ireland 
sent  word  to  their  suffering  brethren  to  persevere  in  the 
faith.  And  in  Leyden  a  notable  pastor  was  preaching 
with  vigor  and  success  the  gospel  of  a  full  religious  free- 
dom. 

To  John  Robinson  is  assigned  the  honor  of  being  the 
father  of  the  Independent  sect.  And  if  his  recorded  words 
testify  to  the  spirit  of  his  teaching,  the  name  was  not  un- 
justly given.     In  England  he  had  been  a  Brownist  of  the 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  ^8; 


o'-'j 


most  earnest  kind,  and  had  shared  with  his  small  congre- 
gation  many  perils  and  wanderings.     But  his  heart  was 
not  naturally  violent.     And  when,  in  1610,  he  established 
his  church  in  peace  at  Leyden,  he  was  able  to  see,  m  com- 
paring his  own  church  with  the  churches  of  the  friendly 
land  which  received  him,  that  the  difference  was  not  very 
wide,  and  that  a  reasonable  charity  was  better  than  a  rigid 
separation.     Adhering  to  the  theory  that  each  church  was 
free  to  choose  its  own  guides  and  ordain  its  own  rules,  he 
yet  recognized  the  fraternal  tie  among  Christians  of  differ- 
ent name,  and  welcomed  to  the  table   of  his  communion 
members  of  all  Christian  bodies.     He  would  pray  with  the 
Arminians  and  invite  them  to  preach  in  his  stead,  would 
ask  their  advice  in  troubles,  and  take  counsel  with  them 
on   questions  of  doctrine   or  duty.     The   consistent    and 
beautiful  life  which  he  lived  won  the  regard  even  of  the 
bigoted  Calvinists  of  Holland,  and  they  tolerated  the  bold 
Englishman,  who  preached  a  creed,  unlike  theirs,  looking 
forward  for  its   development  instead  of  backward  for  its 
sanction.     Ten  years  in  peace  the  congregation  kept  to- 
gether.    But  it  pained  the   catholic  heart  of  Robinson  to 
behold  the  discords  of  his  adopted  land,  and  to  see  the 
brethren  of  a  noble  religious  heritage  neglecting  the  war- 
fare with  Antichrist  to  fight  about  the  obscurest  notions  of 
theology.       He  feared   that   the    congregation    could   not 
dwell  in  peace  much  longer  in  a  land  which  could  deal  so 
basely  with  the  noblest  of  its  children. 

A  new  world,  in  which  England  and  Holland  had  al- 
ready planted  colonies,  invited  them  at  once  to  a  home  of 
safety  and  a  missionary  achievement.  They  had  heard 
of  the  fair  lands  of  Virginia,  and  the  noble  river  on  which 
Hudson  had  sailed.  Would  it  not  be  a  noble  work  for 
them  to  found  on  this  virgin  soil  the  substantial  structure 
of  a  true  Christian  Church,  and  anticipate  prelacy  on  what 
might  be  the  future  seat  of  a  mighty  empire.?  In  the 
Dutch  land,  the  language  was  uncouth,  the  style  of  living 
ungraceful,  and  there  was  nothing  to  give  them  the  home 
feeling  which  they  longed  for.  However  kindly  treated, 
they  were  always  strangers  there.  They  longed  for  a 
country  which  they  might  call  their  own,  and  hear  only 
the  music  of  their  own  tongue,  and  be  free  from  the  exile 

25 


386  THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND. 

feeling.  It  seemed  hopeless  to  wait  longer  for  a  change 
in  the  English  state,  which  might  give  them  return  to  the 
pleasant  fields  which  they  had  left.  The  prince  on  whom 
they  had  fixed  their  hopes,  that  Henry,  whose  generous 
word  had  gone  forth  that  his  first  royal  act  should  be  to 
abrogate  all  that  his  father  had  done  against  the  Puritans, 
and  to  free  his  realm  from  religious  bondage,  had  been 
cut  off  prematurely,  and  in  the  hard,  willful  and  morose 
temper  of  the  single  remaining  son  of  James  they  feared 
only  a  more  implacable  ruler. 

Their  resolve  was  taken.  Agents,  sent  over  to  England, 
with  some  difficulty  procured  a  grant  of  land  in  the  north- 
ern portion  of  the  Plymouth  patent.  A  few  men  of  capital 
were  enlisted  in  the  enterprise,  one  ship  was  bought  and 
another  hired,  and  in  July  of  1620,  one  hundred  or  more 
of  the  congregation  of  John  Robinson  set  sail  for  the  New 
World.  They  were  of  either  sex  and  there  were  children 
among  them.  The  parting  at  Delft  Haven  is  one  of  the 
touching  incidents  which  the  gratitude  of  the  world  will 
not  suffer  to  be  forgotten.  Every  child  to-day  has  in 
imagination  a  picture  of  that  scene;  the  noble  pastor, 
John  Robinson,  uttering  such  brave  words  of  cheer,  bid- 
ding them  inscribe  on  their  covenant  as  its  first  article, 
that  they  be  ready  to  receive  whatever  truth  should  be 
made  known  to  them  from  the  written  word  of  God, — the 
embraces,  the  tears,  the  prayers  and  psalms,  as  parents 
and  children  separated,  uncertain  of  ev^er  meeting  again, — 
why  need  I  dwell  upon  the  household  story  of  New  Eng- 
land ?  History  has  called  that  little  band  by  the  name 
of  Pilgrims,  repeating  so,  not  the  memories  of  the  Chris- 
tian ages,  when  the  feet  of  the  devout  were  turned  to  the 
city  of  David's  reign  and  Jesus'  dying,  and  faith  knelt  at 
the  shrine  of  the  nations,  but  that  elder  tradition  which 
showed  the  wanderers  of  God  seeking,  as  he  should  guide 
them,  the  house  of  their  refuge.  If  the  new  land  had,  to 
the  Church  of  Robinson  no  legendary  holiness,  its  very 
bleakness  and  desolation  became  beautiful,  because  there 
the  promise  rested.  It  was  sacred,  because  in  that  barren 
field  they  could  raise  their  Ebenezer,  the  sign  of  a  king- 
dom which  God  should  build  and  bless. 

Shall  I  leave  the  track  of  Puritan  history  to  follow  the 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND.  387 


fortunes  of  that  little  band,  their  hardships  on  the  sea, 
and  their  hardships  on  the  shore,  the  struggle  with  the 
elements  which  greeted  them  so  roughly,  and  the  pesti- 
lence, not  more  kind  to  them  than  to  their  savage  foes, 
shall  I  tell  of  their  journeys  in  the  forest,  shall  I  examine 
that  charter  of  government,  which,  drawn  up  on  the  ocean, 
became  on  the  land  the  pledge  of  their  stability  and  free- 
dom, and  which  is  held  now  in  reverence  by  all  who  love 
God  and  liberty,  shall  I  show  you  the  custom  of  a  New 
England  home  in  that  early  day,  or  a  New  England  Court, 
or  a  New  England  Church,  how  Allerton  appointed  his 
household,  how  Bradford  governed,  or  how  Brewster 
preached  and  prayed ;  or  need  I  describe  to  you  the  later 
rise  of  the  larger  Colony  of  Massachusetts,  when  the  hun- 
ted Puritans  came,  not  by  hundreds  but  by  thousands, 
and  the  pupils  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  with  their  wives 
of  gentle  blood,  gladly  exchanged  their  hopes  of  prefer- 
ment and  the  turmoils  in  the  land  of  their  birth,  for  peace 
and  security  as  the  pioneers  of  their  faith  had  found  it ; 
or  mark  for  you  the  character  of  that  company,  the  ances- 
tors of  patrician  races,  Winthrop  and  Endicott,  born  to  be 
magistrates,  and  Cotton  and  Higginson,  in  whose  numer- 
ous descendants  the  religious  constancy  and  the  large 
genius  of  their  honorable  line  is  still  manifest  ? 

We  leave,  therefore,  the  Puritans  of  New  England, 
whose  fortunes  and  character  it  is  a  shame  for  any  intelli- 
gent child  whose  school-days  have  far  advanced  not  to 
know  by  heart,  to  take  a  parting  view  of  that  larger  body 
of  which  the  colonies  of  New  England  were  but  a  slender 
offshoot.  We  go  back  to  the  fatherland,  where,  during 
the  settlements  on  these  shores,  the  Puritan  elements  have 
been  working  to  fearful  issues.  We  pass  over  fifty  years 
of  English  history,  and  take  our  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Puritanism  has  now  reached  the 
apex  of  its  power.  It  has  gone  steadily  upward,  battling 
with  royal  prerogative,  asserting  popular  rights,  striking 
down  tyranny  in  its  outworks,  surrounding  it  with  deter- 
mined rebellion,  till  at  last  it  has  voted  in  solemn  session 
that  no  right  divine  doth  hedge  a  king,  and  has  brought 
in  the  face  of  the  princes  of  Europe,  the  descendant  of 
fifty   monarchs  to   the   traitors'    block,    it   has   numbered 


388  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

among  its  orators  such  men  as  Pym  and  Hampden,  and 
Sidney  and  Vane — models  to-dav  and  forever  of  the  for- 
ensic  orator  and  the  ardent  patriot,  it  has  proved  the 
true  alHance  of  Church  and  State  in  the  principles  of  free- 
dom and  the  recognition  of  human  rights  on  which  both 
rest,  and  torn  asunder  the  false  alHance  of  form  and  statute  ; 
it  has  organized  armies  more  than  a  match  for  veteran  loy- 
alty, and  shifted  its  field  of  conflict  from  the  halls  of  Par- 
liament to  the  red  fields  of  Marston  Moor,  Naseby  and  Wor- 
cester; its  keen  diplomacy  has  become  dangerous  abroad, 
and  its  words  of  menace  at  home  the  signal  of  triumph.  It 
has  Cromwell  now  to  lead  its  invincible  hosts,  and  Milton 
to  defend  its  acts  of  daring.  It  has  turned  upon  the 
primate  of  the  Church  his  work  of  tyranny,  stripped  him 
one  by  one  of  all  his  ecclesiastic  robes,  tortured  him  with 
the  mockery  of  an  almost  endless  trial,  and  consigned  him 
at  last  to  the  doom  of  the  vilest  criminal.  The  great  ene- 
mies of  God's  people  are  vanquished,  and  Laud  has  shared 
the  fate  of  Strafford.  The  great  University  of  Oxford,  the 
bulwark  of  the  ancient  church,  has  passed  to  its  control, 
and  the  painful  preachers  take  the  place  of  the  exiled 
heads  of  the  schools,  and  compel  the  students  to  listen  to 
their  long  expositions  of  the  word  of  God.  In  the  cathedral 
pulpits,  Presbyterian  divines  now  dispense  the  metaphysics 
of  Calvin  and  denounce  the  idolatrous  pomp  which  before 
marked  worship  there.  The  great  assembly  of  divines  has 
met  at  Westminster  and  passed  upon  the  form  and  dis- 
cipline of  a  true  Church  of  Christ ;  has  composed  larger 
and  smaller  manuals  of  faith,  to  remain  forever  as  cate- 
chisms for  the  believers,  and  has  decreed  that  the  Protest- 
antism of  England  shall  lie  in  its  soundness  of  faith  more 
than  its  gorgeousness  of  ritual.  Fanatics  of  a  new  stamp 
have  arisen,  who  proclaim  the  Puritans  of  England  to  be 
the  first  artificers  of  the  new  and  final  monarch  of  God, 
and  add  the  English  Republic  as  fifth  to  the  empires  of 
Assyria,  of  Persia,  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Millenaries  pro- 
claim in  the  ranks  of  the  army  that  the  acceptable  year  of 
the  Lord  is  at  hand,  and  Separatists  call  upon  the  ignorant 
to  hear  the  inspiration  and  come  out  from  the  ministry  of 
those  whom  knowledge  hath  puffed  up.  The  catalogue  of 
heretical  sects  proscribed  by  parliament  is  already  a  long 


THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND.  389 

one,  in  doctrines  from  the  Arminians  to  the  Skeptics,  in 
discipline  from  the  Antinomians  to  the  Familists  and 
Ranters.  The  land  is  full  of  pamphlets  which  hot  brains 
have  forged  and  busy  hands  are  scattering.  The  leisure 
of  the  camp  and  the  peace  of  the  Lord's  Day  are  disturbed 
by  the  jangling  of  controversy.  The  most  abstruse  questions 
mingle  with  the  most  practical  debates,  and  the  speech  of 
Scripture  makes  the  burden  of  forensic  eloquence  and 
martial  dispatches.  In  the  ranks  of  the  armies  the  Hebrew 
names  have  nearly  supplanted  those  of  the  ancient  Saxon 
day,  and  the  fiercest  bear  strangely  the  titles  of  some 
milder  christian  virtues.  A  new  style  of  morality  has 
come  in,  and  the  profane  sports  of  monarchy  are  made  by 
statute  unlawful.  The  wearing  of  hair,  the  attendance  on 
spectacles,  the  indulgence  in  dancing  and  music,  the  keep- 
ing of  the  Sabbath,  are  all  cared  for  by  statute,  and  woe 
now  to  any  offender.  Gravity,  sobriety  and  the  fear  of 
God  have  cast  out  the  implements  of  divided  worship. 
The  revenues  of  the  Episcopal  office  are  sequestered  to 
the  needs  of  the  troops  or  the  services  of  the  tabernacles, 
and  pictures  no  longer  adorn  the  walls  of  the  ancient 
churches.  The  Bible  has  survived  alone  the  iconoclasm. 
The  cross  reminds  worshippers  no  longer  of  the  Calvary, 
and  even  from  Lambeth  Chapel,  where  archbishops  for 
many  centuries  had  knelt  to  the  solemn  chanting,  the 
oro:an  is  taken  awav.  The  Sabbath  eveninsr  stillness  is 
broken  even  in  London  city  only  by  the  psalms,  as  one 
hears  them  from  the  window  sung  by  the  pious  father 
with  his  children  around  him.  Beneath  all  the  fanaticism 
an  avv'ful  seriousness  reigns.  There  is  the  consciousness 
of  power,  but  the  stillness  of  fear,  godliness  without  hap- 
piness, union  without  love,  the  life  of  those  who  live  on  the 
volcano  slope,  quiet  on  the  surface  but  heaving  beneath 
them  with  its  mighty  forces,  and  folding  over  them  the 
lurid  shadow  of  its  smoking  cone. 

It  is  from  this  culminating  point  of  Puritan  history,  when 
the  name  was  dropped  but  the  reality  was  intensest,  that  the 
novelists  and  historians  have  drawn  their  pictures  of  the  sect. 
The  Puritan  character,  as  we  know  it,  appeared  then  in  all 
the  concentration  and  force  of  its  elements.  Its  deep,  un- 
doubting,  immovable  faith,  that  sense  of  God's  presence 


39 o  THE  PURITANS   OF  ENGLAND. 

which  dwarfed  all  fear  of  man  ;  its  fiery,  resolute,  daring 
energy,  rushing  on  against  every  obstacle  and  every  foe  ; 
its  conflicts  of  humility  and  zeal,  of  austere  sanctity  and 
bitter  penitence  ;  its  rage  in  battle,  balanced  by  its  ear- 
nestness in  prayer ;  its  calmness  in  demeanor  covering  a 
heart  steeled  against  compassion  ;  its  stern  sense  of  jus- 
tice, bearing  timid  men  even  on  to  regicide  ;  its  stoical 
firmness,  caring  not  for  the  praises  or  the  abuses  of  men, 
but  relying  only  on  the  approving  voice  of  God  ;  its  indi- 
vidualism, making  every  man  the  keeper  of  the  trust  of  an 
infinite  soul,  and  its  spirit  of  congregation,  binding  all  the 
brethren  into  a  church  of  God's  elect,  to  whom  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  was  promised — all  show  the  finest  illustra- 
tion in  this  period  of  Cromwell's  power. 

No  single  name  can  be  selected  as  giving  the  complete 
type  of  the  Puritan  character.  But  in  Richard  Baxter 
more  than  any  other  are  the  elements  of  that  character 
found,  and  in  finer  combination.  His  long  life  of  seventy- 
six  years  was  spent  throughout  in  service  to  the  cause  of 
pure  religion.  He  deserved  well  the  reproach  upon  his 
gravestone,  that  "  he  was  the  sworn  enemy  of  kings  and 
bishops  and  in  himself  the  very  bond  of  rebels."  He 
loved  virtue  better  than  honor,  truth  better  than  applause, 
and  God  more  than  any  man.  His  affectionate  v^^ord  was 
the  mediator  between  the  contending  sects  of  the  Puritan 
party,  and  yet  none  were  more  faithful  than  he  to  the 
principles  of  freedom.  His  ever-busy  pen  gave  testimony 
that  he  was  at  once  constant  to  watch  and  earnest  to  per- 
suade ;  and  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  publications  are 
the  memorial  of  his  industry,  his  piety  and  his  genius. 
His  Call  to  the  Unconverted  was  the  marvel  of.  his  own 
day  in  its  wide  influence  and  its  rapid  sale  ;  twenty  thou- 
sand were  disposed  of  in  a  single  year.  And  even  now, 
sects  which  have  widely  departed  from  his  dark  theology 
commend  this  tract  to  their  disciples,  and  place  it  by  the 
side  of  that  other  sweeter  tract  of  the  same  author,  the 
Saints'  Everlasting  Rest.  He  has  given  us  from  his  own 
pen  the  story  of  his  life  and  experience,  and  his  reflections 
are  worthy  in  their  wisdom  to  stand  by  the  side  of  the 
great  philosopher,  whose  universal  fame  his  childhood 
early  learned  to  envy.     Forced  all  his  life  into  controver- 


THE  PURITANS  OF  ENGLAND.  391 

sies  of  various  kinds,  and  sustaining  tliem  with  matchless 
vigor,  he  yet  longed  in  his  heart  for  peace,  and  learned 
with  advancinor  davs  to  be  charitable  with  error.  The 
pressure  of  calumny  could  not  deter  him  from  duty.  The 
misunderstandings  of  friends  could  not  weary  him  of  main- 
taining their  cause.  He  was  bold  before  his  accusers,  but 
to  the  insolent  Jeffries  he  returned  only  the  answer  of  a 
Christian.  A  lover  of  philosophy,  he  sought  the  best 
philosophy  in  the  teachings  of  the  gospel.  He  could  not 
blame  the  zealous  for  their  excess,  when  he  remembered 
that  it  was  for  the  service  of  Christ.  Yet  he  counselled 
no  violence  and  praised  no  evil  done  to  the  glory  of  God. 
He  was  one  of  the  Puritan  saints,  unyielding,  uncomprom- 
ising where  principle  was  at  stake,  yet  humble  as  a  little 
child  when  he  spoke  of  the  goodness  and  love  of  God. 
His  enemies  admired  his  learning,  confessed  his  purity 
and  dreaded  his  power.  Cromwell  felt  from  him  the 
check  of  that  single  love  of  God  in  which  worldly  ambition 
could  find  no  place,  and  the  usurper  was  cautious  of  one 
who  could  refuse  the  emoluments  and  honors  of  a  bishop's 
place.  A  virtual  martyrdom  allies  him  to  the  noble  army 
who  aforetime  suffered  for  the  faith,  and  the  Puritans 
proudly  compare  him  to  that  bishop  of  the  church  who 
was  from  the  first  his  rival  in  eloquence  and  letters.  If 
the  scholarship  of  Jeremy  Taylor  was  more  luxuriant,  and 
his  fancy  more  quaint  and  various,  the  theology  of  Richard 
Baxter  was  more  robust  and  his  reasoning  more  close  to 
conviction.  No  library  is  complete  which  does  not  hold 
the  chief  productions  of  both  these  great  men.  But  the 
works  of  Taylor  will  be  rather  the  joy  of  literary  leisure, 
while  the  works  of  Baxter  will  be  the  food  of  the  spiritual 
life.  The  prelate  will  take  captive  the  senses  by  the 
charm  of  his  genius,  while  the  Puritan  will  fasten  the  soul 
to  the  power  of  his  divine  wisdom. 


392  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 


KYI. 

UNITARIAN    PRINCIPLES    AND    DOCTRINES. 

"  Who  art  thou  that  judgest  another  man's  servant  ?  To  his  own 
master  he  standeth  or  falleth.  Let  every  man  be  fully  persuaded  in 
his  own  mind." — Romans  xiv.  4,  5. 

These  words  of  Paul  to  the  Romans  are  suitable  to 
preface  a  statement  of  the  principles  and  doctrines  of  the 
Unitarian  sect  of  Christians.  Those  who  deny  to  this  sect 
the  name  of  Christian  show  only  their  want  of  acquaint- 
ance with  its  writing  and  its  preaching.  It  is  very  easy  to 
make  the  charge  of  "infidelity"  against  a  religious  body  ; 
but  to  intelligent  minds  those  who  make  this  charge  only 
exhibit  their  own  want  of  charity  or  knowledge.  Men  do 
not  build  churches,  hold  public  worship,  support  ministers, 
and  spend  money  in  works  which  look  exactly  like  Chris- 
tian works,  and  are  just  what  other  churches  do  which  call 
themselves  Christians,  while  all  the  time  they  are  infidels 
or  atheists.  There  are  some  absurdities  so  patent  that 
they  refute  themselves,  and  bring  confusion  upon  their 
prophets  ;  and  to  say  that  Unitarians,  who  have  churches 
in  America,  and  England,  and  France,  and  Holland,  and 
Switzerland,  and  Germany,  and  Austria,  and  have  had 
them  for  hundreds  of  years ;  who  pray  in  Christ's  name, 
and  sing  hymns  in  his  honor,  and  commend  his  example, 
and  repeat  his  characteristic  works,  —  to  say  that  a  sect 
of  this  kind  is  not  "  Christian,"  is  one  of  the  absurdities  that 
would  be  incredible,  if  men  were  not  found  foolish  enough 
to  utter  it.  A  similar  utterance  was  that  of  those  Phari- 
sees who  ventured  to  say  that  Jesus  could  not  be  God's 
prophet,  because  he  did  not  keep  the  Sabbath  day  in  their 
fashion.  More  sensible  men  at  once  answered  them  that 
the  acts  of  the  healer,  and  the  words  of  the  teacher, 
proved    sufficiently   that   he    was   a   prophet   from    God. 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  393 

There  were  "blind  leaders  of  the  blind"  in  Judea  eight- 
een hundred  years  ago,  and  there  are  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind  in  our  time.  And  there  are  no  persons  whom  these 
words  of  Jesus  more  accurately  describe  than  those  who 
deny  the  Christian  name  to  a  religious  body  of  whose  ideas 
and  principles  they  are  ignorant,  which  they  take  no  pains 
to  know,  and  who  only  care  to  foster  the  illusion  of  those 
who  know  as  little  of  it  as  themselves.  Paul  has  v/ords  of 
this  class  of  men,  too,  in  that  first  letter  of  his  to  Timothy, 
where  he  speaks  of  persons  "desiring  to  be  teachers  of  the 
law  :  understanding  neither  what  they  say,  nor  whereof 
they  affirm." 

There  is  no  need  of  refuting  a  charge  which  refutes  it- 
self to  a  thoughtful  mind  from  the  facts  which  cannot  be 
denied.  But  a  simple  statement  of  Unitarian  principles 
and  doctrines,  which  might  be  made  throughout  from  the 
very  words  of  Jesus,  may  show  more  clearly  the  folly  of 
the  charge  so  loosely  brought.  We  separate  the  princi- 
ples from  the  doctrines,  since  the  first  are  the  working 
force  of  a  religious  body,  the  second  only  its  temporar}?^, 
possibly  its  shifting,  opinions.  Every  church  must  be 
judged  by  its  principles,  by  its  ideas,  by  the  ideas  which 
move  it  and  give  it  power.  Now,  no  church  has  principles 
more  distinctly  defined,  more  universally  admitted,  than 
the  Unitarian  Church.  The  Episcopal,  or  Presbyterian, 
or  Baptist,  or  Methodist  bodies  cannot  be  surer  of  their 
ideas  than  the  Unitariaji.  There  are  certain  principles, 
on  which  all  our  churches,  all  our  ministers,  all  our  men 
and  women,  communicants  and  non-communicants,  what- 
ever their  different  notions  about  one  or  another  do2:ma  ; — 
certain  principles,  upon  which  all  are  agreed,  which  all  in 
our  body  recognize  and  magnify. 

I.  The  first  of  these  principles  is  the  grand  Protestant 
principle  of  the  right  of  private  judginent.  We  hold  to  this 
in  the  fullest  extent.  We  say  that  every  man  has  a  right 
to  form  his  creed  for  himself,  from  his  own  investigation, 
thought,  and  conviction,  and  that  no  one  has  a  right  to 
hamper  him  in  the  process  of  finding  this,  or  to  dictate 
to  him  by  authority  what  he  shall  believe  ;  that  there 
shall  be  absolute  and  perfect  freedom  for  all  men  in  com- 
ing to  religious  truth  as  much  as  to  any  other  truth.     We 


394  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 

say  that  no  councils,  no  synods,  no  catechisms,  no  fathers 
of  the  church,  no  doctors  of  the  church,  no  preachers,  no 
editors,  whether  of  the  ancient  time  or  the  present  time, 
have  a  right  to  lord  it  over  the  souls  of  men,  or  to  say 
what  they  musf  or  mtisf  not  believe.  Every  man  must 
settle  that  for  himself.  Catechisms,  councils,  wise  men, 
may  help  him  in  his  decision,  but  cannot  decide  for  him 
beforehand.  This  is  a  principle  which  every  Unitarian 
Church  in  this  country  or  in  Europe  maintains  with  all 
positiveness,  and  from  which  no  temptation  could  draw  it 
away.  Every  Unitarian  asserts  the  right  of  every  man  to 
think  for  himself  in  coming  to  his  saving  belief. 

2.  A  second  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that 
no  one  ca7i  be  required  or  expected  to  believe  what  is  con- 
trary to  reason^  or  what  seems  to  be  so  ;  that  reason  is  the 
arbiter  of  truth,  and  that  all  truth  is  to  be  tested  bv  rea- 
son.  Unitarians  hold  that  reason  was  given  to  man  as  his 
light  and  his  guide,  that  this  is  the  "  logos  "  of  which  John 
speaks,  and  that  the  only  faith  which  is  good  for  anything 
is  that  which  reason  accepts.  All  beyond  this  is  profes- 
sion,—  phrases,  but  not  truth ;  of  no  use  to  any  one.  All 
Unitarians  are  rationalists  in  this  sense,  that  they  do  not 
wish  or  intend  to  say  that  they  believe  anything  which 
seems  to  them  to  be  mathematically,  metaphysically,  or 
morally  untrue,  contrary  to  the  accepted  laws  of  science 
or  of  soul,  —  anything  which  is  absurd  to  the  reason,  or 
revolting  to  the  conscience.  They  will  not  believe  a  mathe- 
matical falsehood,  or  a  falsehood  of  any  kind,  though  it 
may  be  called  a  mystery  and  pretend  to  be  revealed  by  an 
angel.  Every  church  in  the  body,  every  intelligent  mem- 
ber in  the  body,  holds  to  this  principle,  however  high  or 
deep  their  thought  of  God  and  Christ  may  be.  We  are 
all  rationalists  in  vindicating  reason  as  the  ground  of 
faith. 

3.  A  third  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that  no 
man  is  infallible ;  that  no  creed  can  be  framed  that  shall 
be  beyond  the  reach  of  error,  or  that  shall  not  be  open  to 
change  ;  that  no  form  of  words  or  even  of  ideas  can  set 
forth  the  absolute  truth  as  it  is  in  the  mind  of  God.  The 
wisest  men  make  mistakes,  and  they  make  mistakes  in  in- 
terpreting  and   deciding   religious    truth    as    much   as  in 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  395 

interpreting  or  deciding  any  other  truth.  There  is  no 
infallible  teacher,  there  is  no  infallible  church,  and  there 
never  can  be.  A  thousand  men.  or  a  million  men,  agree- 
ing to  say  the  same  thing,  do  not  make  that  thing  true. 
A  doctrine  is  not  true  because  it  has  been  repeated  for  a 
thousand  years  in  thousands  of  churches.  The  Catholic 
Church  is  not  infallible,  in  spite  of  its  claim  to  own  the 
Holy  Spirit.  The  Protestant  Church,  in  any  branch,  is 
not  infallible,  in  spite  of  its  claim  of  going  by  the  letter  of 
the  Bible.  There  never  was  a  saint  or  a  prophet,  since  the 
Church  began,  who  could  say  that  he  was  exempt  from  the 
possibility  of  error.  All  Unitarians  hold  to  their  principle. 
We  have  no  infallible  standard  in  the  word  of  any  man,  or 
in  the  words  of  any  set  of  men. 

4.  A  fourth  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that 
no  creed  can  contain  the  whole  of  religion ;  that  religion, 
religious  faith,  cannot  possibly  be  summed  up  in  the  words 
of  a  creed.  No  formula,  however  ingeniously  phrased  and' 
arranged,  can  possibly  contain  all  that  the  soul  believes 
and  feels  about  man  and  God  and  the  relation  between 
them.  Religion  is  broader,  deeper,  higher  than  any  creed 
can  possibly  be.  •  A  creed  may  attempt  to  tell  what  faith 
is,  may  tell  some  things  which  we  believe,  but  it  falls  short 
of  expressing  all  our  belief  even  now,  much  less  all  that 
we  may  believe  hereafter.  It  may  have  five  articles  or 
thirty-nine  articles,  or  a  hundred  articles,  and  still  be  in- 
adequate. It  may  be  very  simple  or  very  complex,  very 
clear  or  very  obscure,  and  still  fail  to  conclude  all  faith. 
Some  Unitarians  like  creeds,  while  others  do  not ;  but  all 
agree  that  a  creed  can  never  be  a  finality,  never  be  fixed 
for  all  time,  and  for  the  substance  of  all  faith,  never  stand 
as  the  barrier  to  all  farther  religious  advance.  There  is 
not  one  Unitarian,  anywhere,  in  any  Unitarian  Church, 
who  sums  up  the  religion  of  all  men,  or  even  his  own 
religion,  in  the  words  of  any  creed. 

5.  A  fifth  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that  there 
can  be^  and  that  there  ought  to  be,  no  tiJiifor?nity  of  religious 
faith.  Differences  of  faith  are  inevitable.  Men  cannot 
all  believe  alike  more  than  they  can  look  alike  or  act 
alike.  Their  faith  will  vary  with  their  temperament,  with 
their   education,   with  their  habits    of   thought,   with    the 


o 


96  UNITABIAN  PlilNCIPLES. 


influences  around  them.  Some  will  be  able  to  believe 
what  others  cannot  possibly  believe.  Some  will  accept 
readily  what  others  cannot  be  persuaded  to  accept.  All 
attempt  to  establish  one  creed  for  the  various  branches  of 
the  church  is  preposterous.  Sects  and  parties  in  religious 
things  are  as  natural  and  as  necessary  as  they  are  in  secu- 
lar things.  And  it  is  just  as  impossible  to  force  unanimity 
upon  the  major  points  as  upon  the  minor  points  of  the 
creed.  All  men  cannot  be  made  to  see  God  in  exactly 
the  same  way,  or  to  find  salvation  in  exactly  the  same  way, 
more  than  they  can  be  made  to  take  precisely  the  same 
view  of  Baptism  and  the  Sabbath.  This  principle  of  per- 
mitted and  inevitable  diversity  of  religious  opinion  is  one 
which  all  Unitarians,  whether  of  the  right  wing  or  the  left 
wing,  most  strenuously  maintain. 

6.  A  sixth  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that 
sincere  faith  is  the  only  true  faith ;  that  a  mere  form  of 
words  or  phrases  does  not  express  a  man's  faith,  unless  he 
knows  what  he  is  savins;.  A  man's  creed  is  not  what  he 
utters  with  the  lips,  but  what  he  utters  with  the  mind  and 
heart ;  not  what  he  repeats  following  the  dictation  of  a 
priest,  but  what  he  repeats  out  of  the  motion  of  his  own 
soul.  His  real  belief  is  not  his  professed  belief,  but  his 
hofiest  belief,  be  this  much  or  little,  be  this  identical  with 
or  different  from,  his  professed  belief.  Everything  which 
one  adds  to  his  honest  conviction  is  superfluous,  however 
it  may  coincide  with  the  dogmas  of  the  church.  It  is  a 
principle  of  all  Unitarian  churches,  that  saving  faith  is  not 
in  form  of  sound  words,  but  in  the  sense  of  clear  ideas  ; 
that  sincerity  is  the  prime  requisite  in  all  religious  state- 
ments and  confessions.  They  will  never  ask  a  convert  to 
say  that  he  believes  one  jot  or  tittle  more  than  he  does 
sincerely  believe,  even  if  he  may  be  kept  out  of  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  by  the  defects  of  his  faith.  Strict  and  per- 
fect sincerity  is  the  avenue  by  which  they  would  send  forth 
their  confession  of  belief. 

7.  A  seventh  principle  of  the  Unitarian  Church  is,  that 
character  is  better  than  profession  of  any  ki?id,  and  that  pro- 
fession without  character  is  o-qocI  for  nothing:.  The  char- 
acter  of  a  man  tells  what  he  really  believes  better  than 
his  words  can  tell  this.     The  acts  of  a  man,  his  general 


UNITARIAN  rRlNCIPLES.  397 


tone  of  thous^ht  and  habits  of  life,  are  the  expression  of 
his  real  creed.  We  look  for  his  belief  at  what  he  is,  and 
not  what  he  says  he  is.  We  ask  for  better  proof  than  any 
declarations,  specially  made.  The  creed  is  written  in  the 
life,  and  the  world  reads  it  from  the  man's  life.  Every 
article  must  be  practically  witnessed  by  the  general  tenor 
of  the  man's  acts  or  words.  This  all  Unitarians  assert, 
whether  they  have  a  creed  or  not,  that  the  creed  is  second 
to  the  life,  and  must  never  be  made  the  evidence  or  the 
substitute  for  the  risfhteousness  of  the  man.  They  infer 
no  man's  Christianity  from  the  ease  and  readiness  with 
which  he  repeats  the  phrases  of  the  catechism  ;  but  they 
look  first  at  the  work  which  he  does,  at  what  he  shows 
himself  to  be,  whether  his  life  and  acts  have  any  resem- 
blance to  the  acts  and  life  of  the  Christ.  That  is  first, 
last,  and  always  their  test  of  the  Christian  character. 

These  which  we  have  mentioned,  —  the  right  of  private 
judgment ;  reason  as  the  arbiter  of  truth  ;  that  no  man  is 
infallible  ;  that  no  creed  can  contain  the  whole  of  religion  ; 
that  difference  of  faith  is  necessary  and  inevitable  ;  that 
sincere  faith  is  the  only  true  faith ;  and  that  life  and  char- 
acter prove  real  belief; — are  prhicipks  admitted  by  all 
Unitarians.  Turning  from  these  to  speak  of  doctrines,  we 
have  to  say  at  the  outset,  that  no  person  can  pretend  to 
tell  more  than  the  average  faith  of  the  body  to  which  he 
belonsrs.  The  Unitarian  Church  have  not,  and  thev  never 
will  have,  any  authoritative  creed,  any  series  of  articles  of 
which  one  may  say,  "that  is  the  creed  of  the  sect,"  any 
thing  which  corresponds  to  the  Augsburg  Confession  of 
the  Lutherans,  or  to  the  Westminster  Catechism  of  the 
Presbyterians,  or  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  of  the  Eng- 
lish Church.  One  who  attempts  to  tell  the  doctrines  of 
the  Unitarian  body  must  gather  these  from  his  study  of 
the  books  which  have  been  published  by  leading  writers, 
and  from  his  general  acquaintance  with  the  men  and 
women  of  the  body.  He  can  only  speak  from  impres- 
sions, and  he  has  no  right  to  commit  any  one  else  to  his 
opinion. 

The  first  and  hiHiest  doctrine  of  a  religious  svstem  is 
the  doctrine  of  God.  If  there  is  no  doctrine  of  God,  there 
can  be  no  theology.  What  do  Unitarians,  in  their  average 
faith,  believe  of  God.? 


39^  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 

1.  They  believe  in  the  existence  of  God,  and  in  his  per- 
sonal existence  ;  that  he  is  a  personal  being,  with  mind, 
will,  feeling,  and  power,  all  infinite  ;  that  his  attributes  of 
infinite  knowledge,  infinite  power,  infinite  love,  all  inhere 
in  a  substance  which  is  real.  They  do  not  attempt  to 
show  the  form  of  this  great  person,  to  show  the  mode  of 
this  infinite  existence,  to  show  what  kind  of  a  being  a  self- 
existins:  beins:  —  who  never  was  born  and  who  can  never 
die  —  is.  They  simply  say  that  they  believe  that  there  is 
a  God  :  they  are  not  atheists. 

2.  Then,  in  the  second  place,  they  believe  in  God  as  the 
Creator  of  all  the  things  which  are  in  the  universe,  giving 
in  the  be2:innin2r  the  orerm  of  all  worlds,  and  establishing: 
the  laws  of  generation  and  development,  by  which  the 
universe  has  become  what  it  is  ;  that  what  we  seem  to  see, 
and  what  we  call  matter^  existed  originally  in  the  Divine 
thought ;  that  God  is  the  author  of  all  being,  mediately,  or 
immediately ;  that  all  things  come  from  God,  on  earth  or 
in  heaven. 

3.  In  the  third  place.  Unitarians  believe  that  God  is  a 
just  God ;  in  other  words,  that  he  rules  the  world  by  laws 
which  are  sure,  unvarying,  impartial,  and  universal  ;  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  universe  which  is  not  subject  to 
law  ;  that  spiritual  processes  are  as  much  under  the  do- 
minion of  God's  law  as  material  processes,  —  every  being, 
high  and  low  ;  a  grain  of  sand,  or  a  planet  in  its  orbit ; 
the  flowers  of  the  morning  faded  at  night,  or  the  cedar  of 
Lebanon  with  its  thousand  years  ;  the  meanest  reptile  and 
the  greatest  man  ;  everything  that  has  being,  is  subject  to 
a  law  which  the  Infinite  Ruler  keeps  for  it.  They  say 
that  God's  will  is  just,  because  it  is  according  to  law,  and 
that  when  men  have  discovered  the  law  of  any  being's 
life,  they  have  found  the  Divine  justice  concerning  it. 
The  sternest  Calvinist  could  not  believe  in  the  justice  of 
God  more  absolutely  than  the  Unitarians  believe  in  it. 
The  laws  of  God  are  liis  decrees,  and  he  has  decrees  for 
everything  that  he  has  made.  There  are  no  exceptions 
to  these  laws  ;  what  seem  to  men  the  exceptions,  are  only 
the  result  of  laws  which  they  have  not  yet  discovered. 
God  is  the  Infinite  and  Supreme  Ruler  of  all  the  things 
that  are  made. 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES,  399 


4.  In  the  fourth  place,  Unitarians  believe  that  God  is 
a  loving  and  tender  Father,  having  in  infinite  measure  all 
that  love  for  his  creatures  which  earthly  parents  have  for 
their  children  ;  that  God's  creatures  are  his  children ;  that 
he  loves  them  all,  blesses  them  all,  wills  the  best  good 
of  them  all,  and  is  never  weary  of  loving  them.  This 
fatherly  love  is  his  providence  for  them,  —  general  for  all 
together,  special  for  every  one.  Unitarians  do  not  believe 
in  any  partial  providence,  any  love  or  care  which  is  for 
one  family  and  not  for  another,  one  people  and  not  for 
another,  one  race  and  not  for  another,  one  church  and  not 
for  another,  one  age  and  not  for  another;  —  but  in  a  prov- 
idence which  extends  to  all  ages,  all  churches,  all  races, 
all  peoples,  all  families,  all  men,  and  all  creatures,  special 
always,  because  always  present  and  never  wanting.  The 
fullest  idea  of  an  ever-present,  ever-active,  ever-tender, 
ever-kind  love  of  the  Father  of  all  creatures  is  the  Unita- 
rian idea  of  Providence.  In  their  idea  God  can  never  be 
a  hating  God,  can  never  cease  to  love  and  care  for  any  of 
his  children.  His  love  is  incomprehensible,  only  because 
it  is  so  immense  and  infinite,  so  much  beyond  all  human 
love. 

5.  And  the  name  of  the  Unitarian  body  suggests 
another  peculiarity  of  their  belief  concerning  God, — in 
his  Unity.  They  believe  that  he  is  one,  not  divided  in 
his  Deity,  not  dual,  or  triple,  or  quadruple,  or  centuple, 
but  strictly  one.  They  believe  that  he  exists  in  one  being, 
and  one  person,  that  all  his  manifestations  are  gathered 
and  concentrated  in  this  single  personality.  They  speak 
of  him  as  one  person  in  describing  his  work.  They  ad- 
dress him  as  one  person  when  they  pray  to  him.  His  being 
is  single  and  singular.  It  is  not  the  society  of  Gods  of 
which  Unitarians  think  when  they  think  of  God.  They 
keep  this  conception  of  unity  because  it  is  simple,  is  ra- 
tional, and  best  explains  the  work  of  Providence  and  Cre- 
ation. They  believe  in  the  unity  of  God  as  distinguished 
from  Pagan  Polytheism,  or  from  philosophical  Trinities, 
such  as  those  of  India  and  Greece,  and  such  as  those  of 
the  church-creeds.  They  find  it  entirely  possible  to  wor- 
ship God  the  Father  without  having  any  other  God  to 
divide  his  worship.     And  in  worshipping  God  the  Father, 


4CO  UNITARIAN  PEINCIPLES. 

they  worship  the  God  whom  Jesus  himself  worshipped, 
and  whom  his  word  has  taught  them  to  worship. 

This,  then,  is  what  the  Unitarians  believe  of  God  :  that 
he  exists  as  a  person  ;  that  he  creates  all  things ;  that  he 
is  just,  as  he  rules  by  law ;  that  he  loves,  as  an  Infinite 
Father,  all  his  children  ;  and  that  he  is  one  God,  not  di- 
vided in  his  essence.  How  his  being  is,  what  it  is,  what 
is  his  form,  they  do  not  know,  they  do  not  care  to  know. 
The  finite  cannot  comprehend  the  infinite.  And  they  say 
of  God,  that  no  searching  can  find  him  out,  and  that  all 
dictation  of  what  he  miist  be  and  what  he  must  do,  is  fool- 
ish and  irreverent.  They  afiirm,  as  much  as  any  sect,  the 
mystery  of  the  Godhead  ;  only  it  is  to  them  real  mystery 
by  its  greatness  and  fulness,  and  not  by  its  mathematical 
enigma.  God  is  the  eternal  wonder  of  the  human  soul,  so 
high,  so  vast,  so  complete  in  glory,  that  no  thought  can 
attain  his  being ;  —  but  he  is  in  no  sense  the  puzzle  of  the 
soul,  vexing  it  continually  by  an  existence  which  seems 
false  and  wrong,  according  to  the  laws  of  thought.  The 
mystery  of  the  Godhead  in  the  Unitarian  creed  is  not  the 
part  of  God  which  lies  nearest,  but  the  outlying  greatness 
which  shades  the  farther  circle,  and  is  lost  in  the  infinite 
distance. 

Next  to  the  doctrine  of  God,  in  a  system  of  theology,  is 
the  doctrine  of  Man.  What  do  Unitarians  believe  con- 
cernins:  Man  ? 

I.  They  believe,  in  the  first  place,  that  in  his  physical 
nature  man  is  part  of  the  orderly  sysfe??i  of  organic  crea- 
tions. He  makes  one  of  the  series  of  animated  and  organ- 
ized beings.  He  has  wants,  instincts,  desires,  in  common 
with  other  animals.  He  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  walks  and 
runs,  rises  and  rests,  utters  sounds,  and  communicates  his 
feeling  as  beasts,  birds  and  insects  do.  The  structure  of 
his  frame  is  not  essentially  different  from  the  structure  of 
other  animal  frames.  It  has  the  same  proportion  and  ad- 
justment of  bone,  and  nerve,  and  muscle,  of  heart  and 
brain.  Man  is  animal,  is  born  as  animals  are  born,  dies 
as  animals  die,  in  bodily  organization,  has  the  same  limi- 
tations to  his  physical  being.  His  spiritual  nature  exempts 
him  from  none  of  the  physical  laws.  .  He  is  as  much  under 
these  laws,  subject  to  physical  conditions,  as  the  humblest 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  401 

creature  of  God.  Anywhere  on  the  earth,  man  has  his 
place  and  his  share  in  the  physical  order  of  the  earth. 
Physically,  he  is  not  more  wonderfully  made  than  any 
plant  or  crystal. 

2.  But  Unitarians  believe,  in  the  next  place,  that  man 
is  af  the  head  of  this  series,  is  the  highest  and  most  impor- 
tant of  all  the  visible  works  of  God's  hand.  They  believe 
in  the  dignity  of  his  nature,  that  he  is,  and  was  meant  to 
be.  Lord  of  Creation,  the  master  of  the  forces  of  the  world, 
and  of  the  lives  below  him  ;  that  he  has  larger  powers, 
finer  feeling,  quicker  perception,  greater  range  of  action, 
than  any  of  the  other  beings  with  which  he  stands  in  line ; 
that  there  is  nothing  above  him  in  this  world,  and  that 
the  imagination  can  conceive  nothing  of  which  his  nature 
is  not  capable.  They  believe  that  man  has  an  intelligence 
more  perfect,  a  will  more  energetic,  than  any  brute  beast; 
that  he  has,  in  short,  a  nature  more  spiritual  than  any, — • 
that  man  has  a  soul.  Concerning  the  nature  of  that  soul, 
they  hold  differing  opinions.  There  is  no  uniform  Unita- 
rian psychology,  as  there  is  no  uniform  orthodox  psychol- 
ogy. But  upon  the  fact  that  man  has  a  soul,  they  are 
generally  agreed.  The  spiritual  worth  and  dignity  of  the 
human  soul  is  more  insisted  upon  in  the  writings  of  the 
Unitarians  than  in  the  writings  of  any  religious  sect. 

3.  And  then  Unitarians  believe  that  this  spiritual  dig- 
nity is  a  possibility  of  the  whole  human  race,  and  is  not 
the  property  or  prerogative  of  any  particular  portion  of 
the  race.  They  are  far  from  maintaining  that  all  men  are 
actually  equal,  in  the  life  that  they  have,  but  they  main- 
tain that  all  men  are  potentially  equal,  in  what  they  may 
become,  and  that  they  have  the  same  spiritual  rights. 
They  have  all  the  same  Father,  no  matter  where  they  are 
born,  under  what  sky,  in  what  corner  of  the  earth,  to  what 
custom  of  life,  to  what  kind  of  influence.  The  savage  is  a 
man,  and  has  the  rights  of  a  man.  The  negro  is  a  man, 
and  has  the  rights  of  a  man.  The  idolater  is  a  man  as 
much  as  the  Christian.  Woman  is  human,  and  human 
rights  are  hers.  Unitarians  have  no  dogma  about  the 
first  human  pair,  or  the  first  creation  of  the  race  ;  where 
it  was;  in  Asia  or  America;  when  it  was,  six  thousand 
years  ago,  or  six  hundred  thousand  years  ago ;  in  one  pair 

26 


402  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 

or  in  one  hundred  pairs,  or  by  development  from  lower 
races  ;  but  they  believe  in  the  unity  of  the  human  race, 
as  men  everywhere  have  moral  sense  and  religious  sense, 
and  may  be  educated  to  a  spiritual  life  and  into  a  kingdom 
of  heaven.     All  men  are  spiritually  children  of  God. 

4.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  Unitarians  believe  in  the 
actual  imperfection  of  7nen.  None,  anywhere,  are  as  good 
as  they  might  be,  as  good  as  they  ought  to  be.  All  men 
are  sinners,  to  use  the  common  word,  because  they  trans- 
gress laws  which  are  appointed  for  their  physical  and 
spiritual  welfare.  This  transgression  is  sometimes  volun- 
tary and  deliberate ;  men  know  that  they  are  transgress- 
ing. Oftener  it  is  involuntary,  and  is  discovered  only  by 
the  penalty  which  it  brings.  Unitarians  say  that  even 
the  best  man,  who  is  most  careful  of  his  heart  and  way, 
is  not  perfect ;  that  he  does,  or  says,  or  thinks  what  is 
not  best,  that  he  makes  mistakes,  that  he  violates  law. 
There  is  no  one  who  is  in  all  things  wholly  righteous.  On 
the  fact  of  sin,  Unitarians  have  a  doctrine  as  positive  as 
the  doctrine  of  any  sect.  All  men  are  sinners,  all  women 
are  sinners,  all  children  even,  are  sinners,  in  the  sense  that 
they  do  what  they  ought  not  to  do,  and  leave  undone  the 
things  which  they  ought  to  do.  All  who  violate  the  laws 
of  their  being  commit  sin,  and  will  be  punished  for  that 
sin  ;  the  smallest  or  the  greatest  violation  of  law  has  its 
inevitable  penalty. 

The  condition  of  man  as  a  sinner,  as  a  transgressor  of 
law,  makes  it  necessary  to  have  a  doctrine  concerning  De- 
liverance from  Sin, — concerning  what,  in  the  ecclesiastical 
dialect,  is  termed  "Salvation."  What  is  the  Unitarian 
doctrine  of  Salvation  ? 

I.  Unitarians  believe  that  salvation  \s  deliverance  from 
si?i  itself — from  its  influence,  its  mastery,  its  inner  force 
and  outer  force.  They  do  not  expect  or  ask  for  deliver- 
ance from  the  penalties  of  sins  committed,  or  from  the 
penalties  of  sin  while  the  sins  themselves  are  retained. 
They  believe  that  the  only  way  of  escaping  the  punish- 
ment of  sins  is  to  get  rid  of  the  sins  themselves.  They  do 
not  believe  in  sin  as  an  abstraction,  but  in  sins  as  realities. 
The  best  way,  and  the  only  way,  of  getting  rid  of  sin  is  by 
dealing  with  sins  as  realities,  as  things,  and  not  as  an  in- 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  403 

fluence  in  things.  Deliverance  from  sin  is  wrought  by 
rectifying  the  sources  of  transgression,  by  substituting 
right  principles  for  wrong  principles,  right  affections  for 
wrong  affections,  a  right  direction  of  life  for  a  wrong  di- 
rection of  life,  by  getting  temptations  out  of  the  way,  by 
purifying  passions  and  appetites. 

Unitarians  believe  that  f^e  method  of  salvation  varies 
in  the  case  of  different  persons.  Where  men  are  conscious 
of  any  violation  of  law,  the  first  step  must  be  repentance 
and  a  resolution  to  change  from  such  violation.  Where 
they  are  not  conscious  of  such  violation  of  law,  the  evil 
must  be  remedied  by  better  surrounding  influences  and 
better  education.  The  ordinary  means  of  saving  men 
from  sins  are  training:  them  from  childhood  in  the  wav  of 
virtue,  giving  them  good  precepts  and  good  examples, 
encouraging  all  that  is  pure  and  righteous  in  their  con- 
duct and  conversation,  keeping  around  them  an  atmos- 
phere of  purity,  removing  all  that  imbrutes  and  debases. 
As  so  much  of  the  sin  of  men  comes  from  the  circum- 
stances of  men, — their  mode  of  life,  their  society,  the  in- 
fluences around  them, — they  will  be  saved  by  setting 
these  circumstances  right,  by  making  them  more  comfort- 
able. As  so  much  of  sin  comes  from  disorder  in  the  phys- 
ical frame,  salvation  comes  in  sanitary  reforms,  in  better 
air,  more  light,  moi'e  exercise,  more  physical  health.  Uni- 
tarians believe  that  men  are  saved  by  the  application  of 
the  remedy  exactly  to  the  need ;  not  by  any  arbitrary  and 
artificial  scheme  which  is  the  same  for  all,  and  has  no 
connection  with  the  special  offence,  but  by  the  remedy 
that  belongs  to  the  disease.  They  would  not  deliver  one 
person  from  melancholy  by  the  same  process  which  is  to 
deliver  another  from  drunkenness.  They  would  not  save 
one  person  from  jealousy  as  another  is  saved  from  the 
habit  of  stealing.  The  salvation  must  be  adapted  to  the 
offence,  whatever  that  offence  mav  be.  Salvation  has  its 
difference  in  degree  as  well  as  its  difference  in  kind.  A 
great  deal  more  of  it  is  needed  in  some  cases  than  is  needed 
in  other  cases.  Those  who  are  spiritually  wise  need  very 
little  of  it ;  those  who  are  spiritually  blind  and  ignorant 
need  a  great  deal  of  it.  It  is  much  more  difficult  in  some 
cases  than  in  other  cases ;  more  difficult  when  the  sin  is  of 


404  UNITARIAN  PRINCirLES. 

habit  and  temperament  than  when  it  is  of  sudden  temp- 
tation, and  not  natural;  more  difficult  when  it  is  bound 
up  with  interests  and  passions  than  when  it  stands  aside 
from  the  daily  course  of  life.  There  are  some  occupations 
and  positions  in  life  in  which  deliverance  from  sin  is  ex- 
tremely improbable,  some  callings  in  which  life  seems  only 
possible  through  continued  sin. 

Unitarians  believe  in  change  of  heart,  where  the  emotion 
and  direction  of  the  heart  need  to  be  changed,  but  the 
saving  change  in  their  theology  means  always  a  change  of 
life  and  actioji;  a  coming  back  from  violation  of  law  to 
obedience  to  law.  Salvation  is  the  reconciliation  of  the 
life  to  the  laws  of  God,  the  restoration  of  the  transgressor 
to  obedience.  In  this  work  all  the  change  is  in  the  life, 
spirit,  and  purpose  of  men ;  there  is  no  change  in  the 
Divine  Father  or  in  his  laws.  God  does  not  repent ;  only 
man  repents.  God  does  not  alter  his  work  or  his  coun- 
sels ;  only  man  changes  his  work  and  his  counsel.  Unita- 
rians do  not  believe  in  any  transactioii  between  God  and 
man  in  this  matter  of  salvation,  or  any  scheme  by  which 
Divine  attributes  are  adjusted  in  a  work  which  is  wholly 
the  concern  of  the  creature.  Change  of  heart  and  life 
does  not  merely  guarantee  salvation,  not  merely  win 
this, — //  is  salvation.  The  salvation  comes  ifi  the  obedi- 
ence to  law,  not  merely  after  the  obedience  to  law.  Uni- 
tarians believe  in  future  salvation  as  identical  with  present 
salvation  ;  and  hold  that  the  only  real  salvation  is  present 
salvation.  A  man  is  saved  in  the  spiritual  world  as  he  is 
saved  in  the  natural  world, — by  obedience  to  the  laws  of 
his  being. 

The  most  important  influence  in  this  deliverance  of  the 
soul  and  life  of  man  from  sin  is  the  Christian  religion. 
This  saves  men  in  most  civilized  lands  ;  though  Unitarians 
believe,  too,  that  heathen  religions  have  saving  qualities, 
and  that  the  Chinese  are  saved  from  sin  by  the  teachings 
of  Confucius,  the  Persians  by  the  teachings  of  Zoroaster ; 
that  men  are  made  better  by  the  moral  truths  even  of 
idolatrous  faiths.  But  they  believe  that  the  best  of  all  re- 
ligions— the  religion  which  gives  the  highest,  broadest, 
and  most  spiritual  salvation — is  the  religion  which  holds 
the  name  of  Christ.     They  accept  Christ  as  the  Saviour  of 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  405 

those  who  become  his  disciples,  and  know  his  Gospel ;  and 
as  indirectly  the  Saviour  of  many  who  are  not  called  by 
his  name,  and  are  not  conscious  that  they  know  his  Gospel. 
The  average  Unitarian  faith' exalts  the  salvation  which  is 
from  Christ,  and  gives  it  all  the  practical  force  which  it 
has  in  any  creed.  No  epithets  of  honor  are  too  strong  to 
describe  this  great  salvation. 

But  the  Unitarian  idea  of  this  salvation  is  not  that  it  is 
mystical,  unnatural,  outside  of  the  ordinary  ways  of  influ- 
ences, but  strictly  according  to  the  natural  way  of  influ- 
ence. Christ  saves  men  by  his  teaching^  by  telling  them 
what  is  just,  pure,  good,  true,  noble,  and  divine,  by  giving 
them  good  instruction,  by  giving  them  right  moral  and 
religious  ideas.  He  is  the  great  teacher,  whose  words  are 
wiser  than  those  of  prophets  and  sages.  Christ  saves  men 
by  his  example ;  showing  in  his  own  conduct  and  conver- 
sation, as  we  read  his  biographies,  what  way  of  life,  what 
kind  of  intercourse,  makes  men  happy,  and  gives  a  clear 
conscience  and  the  sense  of  God's  nearness.  Christ  saves 
by  the  spirit  of  his  work,  which  was  in  healing  and  bless- 
ing men.  Christ  saves  by  his  fortitude  in  suffering,  in- 
stanced in  many  ways,  but  especially  by  his  death  upon 
the  cross  ;  which  is,  moreover,  the  supreme  sign  of  self- 
devotion  and  sacrifice.  Christ  saves,  as  he  shows  in  his 
word  and  his  act,  in  his  life  and  death,  the  incarnation  of 
the  Divine  spirit, — the  life  of  a  Divine  Man.  In  speaking 
and  thinking  of  the  salvation  of  Christ,  Unitarians  do  not 
separate  the  human  from  the  divine  in  his  nature,  or  one 
part  of  his  life  from  another.  Men  are  not  saved  by  his 
miraculous  birth,  or  by  his  miraculous  death,  or  by  any- 
thing in  his  history  that  is  apart  from  practical  adaptation 
to  the  human  soul.  Men  are  saved  by  forming  his  life 
within  their  lives,  by  becoming  like  him  in  spirit,  in  pur- 
pose, in  virtue,  and  in  faith,  by  the  whole  of  his  life,  and 
by  the  general  influence  of  his  work.  They  are  saved  by 
the  Christianity  which  has  got  into  the  customs  of  society, 
which  has  been  fixed  in  the  statutes  and  laws,  which  has 
entered  into  the  relations  of  life,  of  business,  of  the  State, 
or  of  the  Church.  Among  Unitarians  there  are  various 
views  of  the  nature  and  the  being  of  jesus  of  Nazareth. 
Some  think  that  he  was  different  by  constitution  from  all 


4o6  ry  IT  A  ni AS  peixciples. 

other  men.  with  no  human  father ;  while  others  think  that 
he  was  what  his  own  Apostles  supposed  him  to  be,  the 
son  of  Joseph  the  carpenter,  and  that  he  had  brothers  and 
sisters,  as  the  narrative  says.  Some  think  that  he  lived  in 
an  angelic  state  before  he  was  born,  while  others  give  to 
him  no  more  pre-existence  than  to  any  man.  Some  think 
that  his  rising  from  the  dead  was  in  tJie  flesh  with  which 
he  died,  while  others  think,  like  the  women  at  the  sepul- 
chre, that  it  was  a  spirit  which  appeared  in  the  form  of 
man.  But  whatever  these  differing  views  about  the  kind 
and  degree  of  the  humanit}-  of  Jesus,  all  Unitarians  believe 
that  he  saves  men  by  natural  influence  on  their  hearts  and 
lives,  as  he  teaches  them,  shows  them  their  sin,  inspires 
them  to  seek  better  things,  and  demonstrates  to  them  the 
kingdom  of  God.  the  man  of  God.  and  the  life  of  God. 
All  Unitarians  find  this  sufficient,  without  any  scheme  or 
contrivance  by  which  God  has  to  appease  his  own  wrath 
in  the  slaughter  of  an  innocent  person  for  the  sins  of  a 
guiltv  world.  In  the  Unitarian  phrase,  the  word  '"atone- 
ment "  always  means,  as  it  meant  in  the  one  place  where  it 
is  used  in  the  Xew  Testament. — reconciliation  ;  and  that  re- 
conciliation is  in  bringing  the  souls  of  men  to  sympathy 
with  God  and  his  laws.  The  Unitarian  Christolog}*  is  of 
one  who  prepares  the  souls  of  men  to  be  the  dwelling- 
place  of  God's  spirit,  of  a  mediator  who  gives  to  the  soul 
the  message  and  the  substance  of  the  life  of  God  ;  who 
showed  in  a  simple  human  life  of  compassion,  love,  and 
faithfulness,  the  visible  inspiration  of  God. 

And  this  leads  us  to  say  that  Unitarians  believe  that 
there  is  a  special  influence  of  the  spirit  of  God  upon  the 
souls  of  men.  They  believe  that  men  are  inspired,  are 
quickened,  are  enlightened  and  energized  by  this  divine 
influence ;  that  it  is  in  the  word  of  prophets  and  in  the 
acts  of  saints.  They  believe  that  there  was  inspiration  in 
the  ancient  time,  and  that  there  is  inspiration  in  the  mod- 
ern time ;  that  there  is  a  faith  in  spiritual  things,  a  sight 
of  spiritual  truths,  which  is  not  the  result  of  investigation, 
or  of  logical  process,  but  which  is  given  directly,  which 
comes  in  conscious  communion  with  God.  They  believe 
i\\2it prayer  is  the  natural  and  the  effectual  method  of  this 
communion  with  God,  that  the  Divine  Spirit  always  comes 


ryiTARIAX  PRIXCIPLES.  407 

near  to  the  souls  of  men  when  they  pray  sincerely,  when 
they  pour  out  their  souls  in  petition  for  spiritual  gifts,  or 
recognize  the  providence  and  love  of  a  living  God.  Uni- 
tarians use  prayer,  and  believe  in  it,  though  they  attach  to 
it  no  superstitious  ideas,  and  do  not  think  that  its  influence 
is  in  any  sense  supernatural.  They  believe  in  prayer  as 
wholly  according  to  the  spiritual  law ;  as  the  necessan,' 
wav  of  orainino^  o^races  of  the  soul,  and  of  holding:  conscious 
intercourse  with  God.  They  hav^e  not  all  the  same  philos- 
ophy of  its  working.  Some  think  that  it  may  move  the 
mind  of  God,  while  others  see  its  effective  work  in  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  men.  But  all  confess  that  it  has  its 
place  in  the  way  of  the  spiritual  life,  and  that  inspiration 
comes  through  prayer. 

Unitarians  believe,  as  really  as  Evangelical  sects  in  their 
prayer  meetings,  that  men  may  be,  and  ought  to  be,  in- 
spired to-day  as  truly  as  in  any  former  day ;  as  really,  too, 
as  Roman  Catholics,  that  inspiration  ought  to  be,  and  that 
it  is,  in  the  Christian  Church.  They  have  a  very  positive 
doctrine  concernins:  ///<?  Church.  Thev  sav  that  the  Church 
is  the  spiritual  union  and  fellowship  of  all  Christian  men 
and  women,  of  all  men  and  women  who  have  the  spirit  of 
Christ  in  their  hearts  and  are  tr\-in2:  to  do  his  work  ;  that 
it  is  not  to  be  fastened  in  any  sectarian  enclosure,  or  de- 
scribed by  any  sectarian  name ;  that  no  denomination  of 
Christians  has  a  right  to  call  itself  "the''  Church,  exclu- 
sive of  other  denominations  ;  that  all  righteous  and  God- 
fearing men  and  women,  who  are  trying  to  realize  the 
kingdom  and  justice  of  God,  as  revealed  by  Christ,  are  in 
the  Church,  members  of  the  Church,  whether  thevT^elonsr 
to  any  particular  Church  or  not,  whether  or  not  they  have 
taken  any  sectarian  name ;  that  the  Holy  Spirit  admits 
.men  to  the  Church,  and  not  the  laying  on  of  a  priest's 
hands  or  the  uttering  of  a  few  phrases  ;  that  a  great  many 
persons  are  in  the  Church  who  have  never  confessed  their 
faith  before  men,  and  have  never  gone  through  any  pro- 
cess of  conversion  that  they  have  known.  Unitarians 
believe  in  the  "  Holv  Catholic  Church  *'  in  the  lars^est 
sense  of  that  phrase,  not  as  meaning  Roman  Catholic,  or 
Anglo-Catholic,  or  Presbyterian  Catholic,  or  Catholic  with 
any  local  or  sectarian  prefix,  but  as  meaning  the  whole 


4o8  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 

company  of  those  who  have  been  influenced  by  the  great 
salvation.  The  Church  is  as  wide  as  the  world  and  as 
wide  as  the  presence  of  the  Lord.  They  believe,  as  Paul 
believed,  that  even  a  multitude  of  the  heathen,  without 
knowing  it,  are  in  the  Church  of  Christ;  that  the  only 
Church  which  Christ  formed,  or  intended  to  form,  was 
this  spiritual  Church,  which  knew  no  distinction  of  name, 
and  had  no  rejection  of  any  who  might  wish  to  come  into 
it.  Unitarians  do  not  believe  in  a  Church  which  bars  or 
bolts  its  doors  to  any  that  wish  to  come  in,  or  which  sets 
in  the  gateway  any  barrier  or  test  of  human  opinion  or 
human  creed.  They  believe  in  a  free  Church,  not  in  a 
fenced  Church,  in  a  Church  which  is  recruited  always  and 
is  never  full. 

Unitarians  have  no  doctrine  of  sacraments,  except  as 
all  obligations,  all  solemn  promises,  are  sacraments.  Bap- 
tism they  call  a  sacrament,  as  it  is  a  pledge  of  a  man  or 
woman  for  themselves,  or  for  their  children,  that  they  will 
try  to  realize  the  righteousness  of  God  in  their  own  lives, 
or  in  the  lives  of  their  children.  Unitarians  have  no  holy- 
water,  and  pray  when  they  baptize  that  the  man  may  con- 
secrate himself  or  his  children  by  that  sign  of  purification. 
The  external  act  is  only  a  sign,  and  they  regard  the  man- 
ner of  administration  as  of  no  importance,  whether  it  is 
by  touching  the  forehead  or  plunging  the  body.  Marriage 
is  a  sacrament,  as  it  is  the  promise  of  two  souls  to  keep 
spiritual  union,  and  to  be  faithful  to  one  another  in  the 
most  momentous  of  earthly  relations.  The  Lord's  Supper 
is  a  sacrament,  as  it  renews  from  time  to  time  the  promise 
of  brotherly  love.  Unitarians  attach  no  superstitious 
ideas  to  this  so-called  rite.  It  is  not  to  them  a  repetition 
of  the  tragedy  of  Calvary,  or  a  peculiar  privilege  of  men 
initiated  into  a  secret  society  or  a  reward  of  religious 
merit ; — in  no  sense  an  awful  mystery.  It  is  simply  a  me- 
morial feast,  calling  to  mind  the  last  supper  of  Jesus  and 
his  disciples,  and  signifying  the  relation  which  the  disci- 
ples of  Jesus  always  bear  to  one  another.  Some  Unita- 
rians attach  more  importance  to  this  memorial  than  others, 
but  all  agree  in  making  it  a  means  of  religion,  and  not  in 
any  sense  an  end.  None  that  I  know  would  keep  any 
person  away  from  the  Lord's  table  who  may  wish  to  come 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  409 

there,  whatever  his  name,  his  profession,  or  his  character. 
Unitarians  believe  that  the  communion  of  the  Lord's  Sup- 
per ought  to  be  always  free,  as  it  was  free  in  the  beginning, 
and  they  have  no  measure  of  fitness  for  it.  They  make 
their  invitation  to  it  as  broad  as  was  the  invitation  of  Paul 
and  Timothy.  The  Lord's  Supper  which  they  believe  in 
is  not  the  Mass  of  the  Catholic  Church,  or  the  solemn 
symbol  of  the  Evangelical  elect,  separated  from  the  world, 
but  the  memorial  feast  as  they  find  it  in  the  Scriptures  of 
the  New  Testament. 

Unitarians  take  the  books  of  the  Bible  as  the  record  of 
the  teaching  of  God  to  the  Jewish  people  and  to  the  early 
Christians  through  their  wise  men  and  their  prophets. 
Their  doctrine  of  the  Bible  is,  that  it  is  a  collection  of 
books  on  various  subjects, — historical,  biographical,  poeti- 
cal and  moral,  of  various  value,  but  mostly  with  a  relig- 
ious bearing  and  purpose.  The  inspiration  which  they 
find  in  the  Bible  is  an  inspiration  of  the  men  whose  story 
is  told,  not  an  inspiration  of  the  words  and  letters.  The 
Old  Testament  is  the  literature  of  the  Jewish  people ;  the 
New  Testament  is  the  early  Christian  literature.  Unita- 
rians prize  the  Bible  as  much  as  any  sect ;  use  it  in  their 
churches,  use  it  in  their  homes,  gladly  assist  in  its  circula- 
tion ;  but  they  do  not  make  an  idol  of  this  sacred  book, 
and  worship  its  name.  They  prize  it  for  the  ideas  which 
it  holds,  and  the  truth  that  if  contains,  and  do  not  make 
more  of  it  than  it  really  is,  or  contend  that  it  is  what  it 
never  claims  to  be.  To  them  the  Bible  is  in  the  words  of 
men, — Hebrew  and  Greek,  Latin  and  English  ;  and  it  has 
the  characteristics  of  human  thought  and  speech,  even 
while  it  tells  the  will  of  God. 

And  the  Unitarian  doctrine  of  the  Sacred  Day  is  that  it 
is  the  Lord's  Da}\  which  preserves  in  memory  that  great 
event  in  the  life  of  Christ  which  took  away  from  his  fol- 
lowers the  fear  of  death.  They  do  not  think  of  this  day 
as  the  Jewish  Sabbath,  loaded  with  prohibitions,  a  day  on 
which  it  is  sinful  to  walk  or  ride,  to  laugh  or  to  be  joyful, 
but  as  a  day  for  the  exercise  of  all  the  best  and  freest 
natural  affections.  It  is  no  more  sacred  in  itself  than  any 
other  days  of  the  week,  and  has  no  moral  code  peculiar 
to   itself.      The   Unitarian   doctrine    is   that  the   Sabbath 


41  o  UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES. 

was  made  for  man  and  not  man  for  the  Sabbath  ;  that 
there  is  no  more  reason  for  wearing  sad  countenances 
when  men  worship  together  than  when  they  work  to- 
gether. The  dignity  of  the  day  comes  in  the  spiritual 
quickening  which  it  gives ;  in  its  associations  with  what  is 
beautiful,  and  pure,  and  friendly,  and  fraternal ;  in  its 
separating  men  from  selfish  cares  and  joining  them  in  com- 
mon prayers  for  mutual  good  ;  in  giving  them  experience 
of  the  heavenly  life,  which  is  the  immortal  life.  On  the 
Lord's  Dav  men  feel  their  true  life,  and  thev  have  this 
more  abundantly. 

And  the  Unitarian  doctrine  of  death  is,  that  it  is  on/y  a 
change  in  the  condition  of  life,  not  an  extinction  of  life  itself. 
It  has  no  power  to  destroy  the  soul,  but  all  its  work  is  in 
taking  vitality  from  the  bodily  frame,  and  leaving  the 
parts  of  this  to  dissolve  and  enter  into  new  material  forms. 
The  soul,  the  living  spirit  of  the  man,  unclothed  from  its 
mortal  part,  assumes  now  a  spiritual  body,  suited  to  a  new 
world  and  new  needs  of  life.  The  philosophy  of  the  spir- 
itual world  is  not  uniform  with  Unitarian  believers.  Some 
have  it  nicely  drawn  out,  and  can  make  pictures  of  it, 
while  with  others  it  lies  vague  and  undefined.  But  all 
that  I  know  agree  in  rejecting  the  crude  notion  of  the  res- 
urrection of  the  physical  body,  and  in  denying  any  neces- 
sary union  between  the  soul  and  body  after  death  has 
parted  them.  Most  Unitarians  believe  in  the  recognition 
of  departed  friends,  that  souls  which  have  been  joined  on 
earth  in  love  will  still  keep  union  in  the  spiritual  world  ; 
that  in  the  disembodied  world  there  are  near  societies, 
families  and  kindreds,  though  the  physical  ties  exist  no 
longer.  There  are  some  who  think  and  speak  of  Heaven 
as  a  place  ;  but  the  faith  of  the  wisest  treats  Heaven  as  a 
state,  which  may  be  as  real  on  the  earth  as  beyond  the 
earth. 

In  regard  to  rewards  and  punishments  in  the  future  life, 
Unitarians  have  no  doctrine  separate  from  their  general 
doctrine  of  law  and  its  violations.  They  believe  that  all 
good  deeds  have  their  inevitable  reward,  cannot  fail  to 
bring  the  happiness  and  peace  which  they  deserve,  but 
that  the  thought  or  expectation  of  personal  happiness, 
here   or   hereafter,    is   not  the  proper  motive  of  Christiajt 


UNITARIAN  PRINCIPLES.  411 


z'/rfue.  Men  should  do  good,  because  that  is  right,  because 
that  is  the  will  of  God,  not  because  it  will  give  them  some 
individual  blessing.  So  they  believe  that  every  sin  has  its 
penalty  which  cannot  be  escaped,  and  that  the  spiritual 
penalty  of  sin  will  endure  as  long  as  the  sin  lasts,  and  un- 
til it  shall  have  wrought  its  due  and  needful  reformation. 
How  long  in  time  this  will  be,  they  cannot  tell;  but  they 
believe  that  God's  counsel  will  not  fail  through  man's 
transgression,  and  that  it  is  the  Lord's  will  that  not  one 
of  his  rational  creatures  should  utterly  and  forever  perish. 
They  expect,  in  the  consummation  of  all  things,  the  uni- 
versal reign  of  the  Lord. 

This  is  a  rapid  and  concise  statement  of  the  average 
Unitarian  opinion  upon   the  principal  points  of  religious 
doctrine.     Unitarians  claim  that  these  views  are  rational, 
and  can  be  maintained  without  doing  violence  to  reason  ; 
that  they  are   Scriptural,  and  can  be    justified   from   the 
spirit  and  from  the  letter  of  the   Christian  record,  rightly 
read ;  that  they  are  agreeable  to  the  best  instincts  of  the 
soul ;  that  they  are  harmonious  with  the  science  of  nature, 
and  w^ith  the  needs  of  human  life ;  that  children  can  un- 
derstand them,  and  that  the  mature  mind  does  not  out- 
grow them ;  that  they  are  good  to  live  by,  and  that  they 
are  good  to  die  by.     This  system  of  doctrine  has  satisfied 
and  still  satisfies,' the  wisest  men  and  the  best  men  ;  men 
who  are  honored,  trusted,  and  loved  ;  men  w^ho  are  listened 
to  respectfully,  and  are  followed  by  the  praise  and  rever- 
ence of   the  whole  community.     Three  of  the  American 
Presidents  have  been  members  of  the  Unitarian   Church, 
and  two  others  have  given  this  faith  in  substance  as  their 
creed.      Of   Judges,    Governors,    Senators,    Congressmen, 
elected  by  votes  of  the  Evangelical  sects,  who  have  pro- 
fessed this  faith,  the   list  would  be  a  very  long  one._    The 
most  distinguished  of  the   writers  of  the  country,  in  his- 
tory, in  poetry,  in  philosophy,  in  art,  are  nearly  all  Unita- 
rians.    The  ablest  public  speakers  find  inspiration  in  these 
views  of  God  and  man.     So  far  as  great  names  lend  credit 
to   any  doctrine,  this  Unitarian  doctrine  certainly  has  it. 
But  it  has  in  quite  as  large  measure  the  better  credit  of 
noble  and  beautiful  lives,  of  saintly  men  and  women,  who 
rise,  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  to  tell  what   it  has  done  for 


412  UNITARIAN  PBINCIPLES. 

them.  The  worst  bigot  in  Massachusetts  would  not  dare 
to  call  Governor  Andrew  an  *'  infidel,"  though  he  was  as 
faithful  to  care  for  his  Sunday-school  class  in  the  Unita- 
rian Church  of  the  Disciples  as  for  the  wounded  in  the 
hospitals  and  the  soldiers  in  the  field.  No  faith  has  ever 
been  more  ready  to  prove  itself  by  works  of  love  and 
mercy  than  this  faith.  If  it  has  not  sent  many  missiona- 
ries to  fight  against  idolatry  in  heathen  lands,  and  substi- 
tute for  this  idolatry  the  creeds  of  Augustine  or  Calvin,  it 
has  sent  far  more  than  its  proportion  of  missionaries  into 
the  waste  places  at  home,  into  the  haunts  of  wickedness, 
to  convert  the  blind,  and  the  erring,  and  the  sinful. "  No 
one  can  deny  that  Unitarian  Christianity  makes  ministers 
of  practical  righteousness. 

Unitarians  are  not  indifferent  to  the  good-will  of  the 
Christians  around  them.  They  do  not  like  to  be  misrep- 
resented, or  to  be  treated  as  outlaws,  even  by  ignorant 
and  bigoted  men.  But  they  can  stand  alone,  and  are  not 
to  be  driven  from  their  position  by  any  slanders.  They 
will  hold  fast  to  what  they  believe  to  be  truth,  even  if  they 
are  denounced  as  unbelievers,  or  are  denied  a  place  in  the 
great  salvation.  They  want  no  Heaven  which  is  won  by 
compromise  and  hypocrisy ;  and  they  will  lose  the  society 
of  men  whom  they  respect  rather  than  be  false  to  the 
word  of  God  as  it  is  spoken  to  their  souls.  They  hold 
their  doctrine  not  as  a  finality  or  a  perpetually  binding 
creed,  but  as  ready  always  to  revise  and  improve  it,  as 
the  spirit  of  God  shall  give  them  more  light  and  knowl- 
edge. They  own  no  master  but  the  great  Teacher,  the 
great  source  of  spiritual  wisdom,  and  they  are  content  to 
abide  his  judgment.  They  ask  no  triumph  or  success,  but 
the  triumph  which  truth  shall  give  them,  as  shown  in  the 
logic  of  their  argument,  and  as  shown  in  the  lives  of  their 
confessors. 


I 


CEARACrEIUSTICS  OF  THE  JEWS.  413 


XVII. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  JEWISH  RACE. 

Nothing  in  our  time  is  more  remarkable  than  the 
change  in  the  kind  of  interest  which  is  taken  in  the  for- 
tunes and  character  of  the  Hebrew  race.  For  a^es,  Chris- 
tians  have  had  rather  an  archaeological  heed  of  the  people 
who  were  their  religious  ancestors,  and  have  limited  their 
concern  to  the  religious  books  and  the  ancient  doings  of  a 
nation  once  the  people  of  God,  but  who  forfeited  their 
right  by  their  rejection  of  the  Christ,  and  virtually  became 
heathen.  Since  that  fatal  act  of  impiety,  the  Jews  have 
been  as  good  as  dead  to  a  vast  majority  of  the  Christian 
world,  and  have  been  known  only  as  subjects  of  persecu- 
tion and  outrage  of  every  kind,  illustrating  in  their  fate 
the  sure  Divine  vengeance  upon  wickedness.  A  hundred 
years  ago  the  praise  of  a  Jew  by  a  Christian  would  have 
brought  suspicion  upon  the  Christian,  and  almost  have 
condemned  him  as  a  blasphemer  and  an  infidel.  In  the  Mid- 
dle Age,  the  Jew  was  the  type  of  all  that  was  mean,  treach- 
erous, false,  and  infamous.  His  squalid  garb,  his  cringing 
gait,  his  malignant  leer,  his  avaricious  heart,  were  the  mark 
of  the  satirists,  and  the  proof  for  the  preachers  of  the 
justice  of  an  offended  God.  The  Jew  had  no  rights  that 
Christians  were  bound  to  respect.  He  was  an  outlaw, 
only  tolerated  from  prudence  or  policy.  He  could  be 
abused  in  his  person,  robbed  of  his  purse,  driven  like  a  dog 
from  his  home,  could  be  spit  upon,  beaten,  burned,  with 
no  one  to  defend  him,  or  even  to  pity  him.  To  call  a 
Christian  "Jew"  was  the  height  of  insult.  The  foot  of  a 
Christian  was  polluted  in  crossing  the  threshold  of  a  Jew, 
or  the  barrier  of  his  quarter  in  the  cities.  It  was  sacrilege 
for  a  Christian  to  marry  a  daughter  of  the  hated  race. 
Kings  and  lords  might  use  the  rich  Hebrews  for  the  neces- 
sities of  luxury  or  war,  but  the  convenience  of  their  loans 


414  CHARACTERISTICS   OF   TflE  JEWS, 


did  not  bring  more  consideration  for  their  lineage. 
Shakespeare  in  his  Shylock,  Walter  Scott  in  his  Isaac  of 
York  have  not  overdrawn  the  scorn  and  contempt  which 
followed  the  Jew  of  the  former  centuries. 

But  all  that  is  strangely  changed.  The  lost  honor  of 
the  Jews  has  been  restored.  The  persecutions  have  ceased. 
In  most  civilized  lands  the  Jews  stand  equal  with  the 
Christians,  with  the  same  rights,  with  the  same  privileges, 
with  as  good  consideration  from  the  rulers,  and  less  harmed 
by  bigotry  than  the  Christian  sects  around  them.  They 
are  in  the  high  places  of  trust  and  power, —  ministers  of 
finance,  ministers  of  education,  peers  of  the  realm,  mayors 
of  great  cities,  senators  in  the  assembly,  close  counselors 
of  the  kings.  Their  worship  is  recognized  as  lawful, 
and  even  supported  by  largess  from  the  State,  as  much 
as  Catholic  or  Protestant  worship.  In  the  very  lands 
where  they  were  once  fiercely  hated  and  driven,  their  syn- 
agogues now  surpass  in  splendor  the  most  costly  of  the 
Christian  temples.  In  Berlin,  the  Hebrew  temple  to-day 
is  larger  than  the  Temple  of  Solomon  in  Jerusalem,  and 
has  beauties  which  the  Temple  of  Solomon  could  not 
show.  In  America  —  in  New  York,  and  Cincinnati,  and 
in  many  more  places, —  the  synagogues  rival  the  grandest 
of  the  Christian  structures,  and  they  stand  proudly  on  the 
corners  of  the  principal  streets. 

The  Jews  now  claim  their  full  share  of  public  duties  and 
public  rewards.  They  seek  offices  and  they  get  offices. 
They  supervise  the  doings  of  Christian  Boards  of  Trade 
and  in  Boards  of  Instruction.  The  Rabbi  may  be  the 
Committee  in  a  school  where  the  words  of  Jesus  and  the 
story  of  the  crucifixion  are  read  by  the  teachers  to  the  pu- 
pils. The  secular  and  the  sectarian  journals  chronicle  the 
acts  of  the  Jews  as  carefully  and  candidly  as  they  chroni- 
cle the  acts  of  any  Christian  sect ;  give  abstracts  of  their 
synagogue  sermons,  reports  of  their  solemn  feasts  and  fasts, 
their  Passover  and  Pentecost,  and  their  Vom  Kippur^ 
and  their  joyous  Piirini^  as  much  as  of  the  Christian 
Christmas,  and  Lent,  and  Easter.  In  the  almanacs,  the 
Jewish  calendar  accompanies  the  Christian.  The  Jewish 
newspapers  abound,  and  in  vigor  and  variety  compare 
favorably  with  the  Christian  weeklies,  and  furnish  edifying 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  4^5 


reading  to  the  disciples  of  Jesus.  If  tiiey  have  in  our 
hmd  no  university  as  yet,  the  Jews  have  famous  seminaries 
in  other  lands,  and  the  sons  of  their  race  bear  off  high 
honors  in  the  Christian  colleges.  The  reproach  of  the 
name  has  utterly  vanished,  and  no  horror  is  expressed 
when  Christians  renounce  their  faith  ;  when  "  love  "  makes 
of  the  son  or  daughter  of  some  Christian  communion  an 
Israelite  of  the  ancient  pattern.  A  change  of  that  kind 
does  not  degrade   tlie   social   standing  of  the  person  who 

makes  it. 

In  the  novels  and  dramas  that  are  now  written,  a  Jew  is 
oftener  the  hero  than  the  villain  of  the  piece  ;  his  virtue, 
his  faith,  his  magnanimity,  are  set  in  contrast  with  Chris- 
tian selfishness   and    falsehood.      Lessing's  "Nathan  the 
Wise  "  has  become  the  type  of  nobleness,  which  is  com- 
mended in  orthodox  works  of  fiction.       Disraeli  is  not  the 
only  famous  writer  who  finds  pleasure  in   making  the  race 
of  Abraham  the  pioneers  of  civilization,  and  the  arbiters 
of  the   world's   destiny.      Writers   who  have   no   Hebrew 
blood,  and  no  filial  feeling  in  their  discourse,   expatiate 
upon  the  great  service  of  the  Jews  to  the  world,  in  art  and 
science,  in  letters  and   music,  in  commerce   and  discovery. 
In  the  current  literature  of  Europe,  the  Jew  has  a  singular 
prominence,  more  than  rivaling  that  given  in  America  to 
the  negro,   its  former  pariah.      Japhet   is   concerned  for 
Shem  as  well  as  for  Ham  ;  and  while  enthusiasm  for  the 
negro  is   declining,   interest  in    the    Israelite    is   gaining. 
Christians  are  not  unwilling  to  look  at  their  own   religion 
as  it  appears  from  a  Jewish  position,  and  to  listen  to  Jew- 
ish judgment  upon  their  claim.     They  are  reconsidering 
the  case  of  the  ancient  Jews,  are  allowing  that  the  rabble, 
and  even  the  better   class,  who  shouted  at  the   crucifixion, 
sinned  from  ignorance  rather  than  will,  and  that  many  of 
the  Pharisees  were  godly  and  faithful  men.   Some  prejudice 
against  the  Jew  may  remain,  but  it  is  not  religious  prej- 
udice.    There   are   missions   for  the  conversion  of    Jews 
in  Moslem   lands,— a  feeble   one   in  Jerusalem;    but  few 
expect  or  care  for  the  conversion  of  the  Jews  in  the  West- 
ern lands.     The  least  trusted  of  the   race  are  those  who 
pretend  to  be  Christians  ;   and  dealing  with  them  is  as  un- 
safe as  of  the   Jews  with  the  ancient  Samaritans.     This 


41 6  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  JEWS. 

change  in  the  position  and  honor  of  the  Jewish  race  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  striking  social  phenomena  of  our 
age.  It  realizes  the  saying  of  Zechary  the  prophet :  "  Ten 
men  shall  take  hold,  out  of  all  languages  of  the  nations, 
shall  take  hold  of  the  skirt  of  him  that  is  a  .Jew,  saying, 
'  We  will  go  with  you,  for  we  have  heard  that  God  is  with 
you.'  " 

This  new  favor  which  the  Jewish  race  has  found,  invites 
to  a  study  of  its  characteristics.  Rabbi  Jellinek,  of  Vien- 
na, in  his  admirable  treatise,  has  drawn  these  very  sharply, 
and  has  said  only  what  the  observation  of  intelligent  minds 
will  justify.  The  study  of  these  characteristics  is  a  study 
of  contrasts,  for  the  character  of  the  Jew  is  a  constant 
paradox  in  its  apparent  contradictions.  The  race  is  at 
once  universal  and  special  ;  enthusiastic  and  sagacious ; 
conservative  and  progressive  ;  subjective  and  objective  ; 
proud  and  humble;  passionate  and  patient;  economical 
and  lavish;  dogmatic  and  tolerant;  —  all  these  contra- 
dictions we  find  in  its  character,  to  mention  no  more. 
It  is  a  race  which  justifies  by  its  style  and  its  spirit  the 
most  opposite  estimates.  This  combination  of  contrasts 
seems  to  warrant  the  theory  of  the  future  triumph  of  the 
race  as  the  synthesis  of  humanity,  harmonizing  opposites, 
reconciling  discords,  and  so  inheriting  the  promise  of  uni- 
versal dominion.  The  reasoning  which  infers  this  triumph 
is  rather  fanciful,  and  mistakes  association  of  contrasts  for 
fusion.  To  the  minds  of  careful  thinkers  these  contrasts 
leave  rather  an  impression  of  incompleteness  than  of  gen- 
uine harmony.  The  dualisms  are  too  evident  to  give  the 
sense  of  unity. 

I.  The  first  peculiarity  that  appears  in  the  study  of  the 
Jewish  race  is,  that  it  is  at  once  universal  and  special,  in  its 
spirit  and  in  its  place  in  the  world.  It  is  everywhere,  and 
yet  it  is  a  race  by  itself.  It  has  no  particular  country  or 
home,  and  yet  it  is  separated  from  all  other  races,  in  w4iat- 
ever  country  it  may  be.  The  Jew  is  found  in  all  the  na- 
tions, barbarous  as  well  as  civilized,  and  yet  he  keeps  indi- 
viduality of  race  in  all  the  nations.  There  are  Jews  in 
warm  climates  and  in  cold,  in  old  nations  and  in  new,  in 
free  nations  and  in  despotic,  in  Pagan  and  Moslem  and 
Christian  nations ;  and  yet  in  all  these  the  race  is  essentially 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  417 

the  same.  The  English  Jew  is  brother  not  only  to  the 
American,  but  to  the  Moorish  and  Egyptian  and  Persian 
Jew.  The  spirit  of  the  race  is  the  same  under  whatever  sky. 
No  race  better  adapts  itself  to  circumstances,  yet  no  race 
more  resists  circumstances  in  change  of  character  or  faith. 
The  Jew  makes  himself  everywhere  at  home,  in  great  cities 
or  small  cities,  in  wealthy  communities  or  poor,  yet  remains 
the  same  person  in  all,  not  to  be  mistaken  for  those  with 
whom  he  dwells.  In  France,  he  is  a  Frenchman,  and  has 
French  manners ;  in  Egypt,  he  is  an  Egyptian,  with  E2:yp- 
tian  manners ;  in  Russia,  he  is  a  Russian,  and  lives  like  a 
Russian ;  nevertheless,  no  one  mistakes  him  for  a  French- 
man, or  an  Egyptian,  or  a  Russian  proper,  and  the  sign  of 
dress  is  the  least  important  of  the  marks  which  distinguish 
him.  He  speaks  the  language  of  the  nation  in  which  he 
lives,  and  correctly  enough ;  but  with  a  peculiar  tone  and 
accent,  as  distinct  in  Semitic  and  Turanian  dialects  as  in 
the  European  tongues.  The  words  of  a  German  Jew  are 
different  from  the  words  of  a  Spanish  Jew,  but  the  tone 
and  the  quality  are  the  same.  The  Jew  enters  as  heartily 
as  any  into  the  politics,  the  civil  and  social  affairs  of  the 
country  in  which  he  dwells.  He  enlists  in  its  armies  ; 
he  votes  in  its  assemblies  ;  he  is  eager  in  its  amusements ; 
he  is  foremost  in  its  traffic ;  he  does  not  stay  aloof  from 
any  social  call ;  he  has  no  conscientious  hindrance  from 
any  civic  duty.  He  adapts  himself  perfectly  to  exigencies 
of  time  and  place.  Yet,  after  all,  the  Jews  mingling  with 
the  throngs  in  London  and  New  York  are  as  truly  a  pecu- 
liar people,  as  in  the  Ghetto  of  Rome,  or  the  Judenstadt 
of  Prague,  or  the  huddled  hovels  of  Mount  Zion  in 
Jerusalem.  They  are  a  community  by  themselves  as  much 
when  they  are  gay  and  glittering  in  the  Opera  House  of 
Chicago,  the  new  Lake  City  of  yesterday,  as  when  they 
are  bent  and  sad-eyed  in  the  ruined  lanes  of  ancient  Ti- 
berias. 

This  external  peculiarity  of  the  Jews  is  also  manifest  in 
their  spirit.  They  keep  by  themselves  and  are  tenacious  of 
their  ideas,  yet  no  people  in  the  world  are  more  sensitive 
to  the  opinions  of  the  people  around  them,  or  more  anxious 
to  secure  the  good-will  of  the  Gentiles.  The  Jewish 
authors,  poets,  artists,  musicians,  do  not  work  only  or 
27 


41 8  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  JEWS. 

mainly  for  their  own  people,  but  more  for  the  alien  races. 
Auerbach  writes  for  Christian  readers  ;  Meyerbeer  com- 
posed for  audiences  of  the  heathen,  while  his  enduring 
love  was  for  the  brethren  of  his  faith.  The  Jewish  com- 
posers, in  music  and  in  story,  choose  their  themes  outside 
of  their  own  history.  Moses  in  Egypt  was  the  work  of  the 
Catholic  Rossini ;  while  the  Huguenots^  and  yohn  of  Ley- 
den,  and  Robert  the  Devil,  were  the  heroes  of  the  Jewish 
master.  The  complaint  runs  back  to  the  time  of  the 
Alexandrine  Philo  that  the  Hebrew^  people  are  so  greedy 
of  Gentile  praise,  and  so  ready  to  adopt  foreign  ways  in 
neglecting  their  own  traditions ;  and  the  very  Philo,  who 
thus  grumbles,  shows  the  fault  which  he  rebukes  in  his  own 
love  for  Greek  speculations.  That  illustrious  ambassador 
at  the  Roman  Court  not  only  used  the  Greek  tongue  in 
pleading  for  his  people,  but  the  very  phrases  of  the  Greek 
philosophy.  Indeed,  Jewish  historians  have  marked  the 
close  resemblance  of  the  spirit  of  Jews  and  Christians 
dwelling  together,  —  how  quickly  Israel  in  its  dealing 
and  its  thought  borrow^s  the  temper  and  method  of  its 
neighbors.  A  noted  German  proverb  runs  :  "  Wie  es  sich 
Christelt,  so  yuedelt  es  sich  " — "  As  the  Christian  tone  is, 
the  Jewish  tone  will  be."  The  direction  of  the  Judaism 
can  be  iud^'ed  from  the  Christianitv  around  it.  Where 
orthodox  Christianity  has  sway,  Judaism,  too,  will  be 
orthodox;  where  Rationalism  is  stronger,  Judaism  will  be 
rationalistic. 

This  distinction  is  even  shown  by  Jewish  writers  in  their 
classification  of  the  Biblical  books.  The  Law  is  special ; 
the  Prophets  are  general.  The  Levitical  precepts  are  par- 
ticular;  the  Psalms  are  universal.  The  Pentateuch  is  a 
religion  for  one  people ;  the  other  writings  are  a  religion 
for  all  peoples.  And  a  distinction  is  even  made  in  the 
Law  itself,  as  some  parts  of  it  are  shown  to  be  special, 
while  others  are  shown  to  be  general  ;  the  priestly  regula- 
tions only  valid  for  Jews,  the  decalogue  also  for  Gentiles. 
Too  much  stress  may  be  laid  upon  these  differences,  for 
there  are  certainly  passages  of  the  Psalms  and  Prophets 
as  intensely  special  and  Jewish  as  anything  in  the  books 
of  the  Torah.  But  the  contradiction  of  Jewish  particular- 
ity and  universalism  remains  a  fact,  which  it  is  impossible 


CUARACTERISTJCS   OF  THE  JEWS.  419 

1:o  deny  or  to  neglect.  The  Jew  has  always  a  double 
nationality, — that  of  his  own  blood  and  heritage,  and  that 
of  the  people  with  whom  his  lot  is  cast.  His  real  home  is 
the  earth  anywhere  ;  and  yet  his  other  home  is  always  that 
happy  land  which  God  gave  to  his  fathers,  and  which 
holds  the  graves  of  his  Prophets  and  his  Patriarchs. 

2.  Equally  marked  in.  the  character  of  the  Jewish  race 
are  the  contrasted  qualities  of  enthusiasm  afid  sagacity. 
On  one  side  the  Jew  is  extravagant,  while  on  the  other  he 
is  keen,  careful,  and  close  in  his  scrutiny.  He  loves 
hyperbole ;  and  the  round  and  exaggerated  numbers  of 
the  Biblical  stories  are  as  common  in  the  familiar  speech 
of  the  modern  Hebrews  as  in  the  time  of  Saul  or  Joshua. 
The  Jew  is  sensitive  to  emotions, — breaks  into  rapture 
over  fine  music,  over  lyric  verse,  over  ardent  sentiment ;  is 
moved  easily  to  joy  or  grief,  and  has  no  bound  to  his  ex- 
pression of  feeling.  In  his  praise  or  in  his  blame  he  uses 
strong  language  ;  loves  vehemently,  and  hates  vehemently. 
His  heart  speaks  in  his  look  and  gesture,  and  his  whole 
frame  is  eloquent.  All  branches  of  the  Semitic  race,  the 
Arabs  as  much  as  the  Jews,  have  this  demonstrative  man- 
ner, this  show  of  earnestness,  in  all  that  thev  sav  or  do. 
Thev  work  with  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  streno:th. 
The  Jew  seems  in  all  that  he  says  or  does  to  remember  the 
phrase  of  his  first  commandment.  There  is  nothing 
languid  in  his  movement.  Even  when  his  body  is  weak 
his  step  is  quick.  Even  when  his  eye  is  dim  its  glance  is 
rapid.  Even  when  his  voice  is  broken  there  is  no  drawl 
in  it.  He  talks  large,  in  grandiose  style,  though  he  may 
dwell  in  a  cellar.  The  poetry  of  the  Hebrews  has  no 
metre,  no  rules  of  quantity  or  rhythm,  but  swells  with  its 
theme  ;  and  it  expresses  the  spirit  of  the  people,  which 
has  no  limit  to  its  sentiment,  whether  of  wonder  or  grief. 
The  Jew  prefers  high  colors,  as  well  in  feeling  as  in  dress, 
and  delights  more  in  tragedy  than  in  comedy.  He  can 
laugh  on  occasion,  but  weeping  is  more  natural  to  him,  and 
lamentation  in  his  heritage.  The  pastime  of  the  Jews  in 
Jerusalem  is  their  weekly  wail  before  the  sacred  stones  of 
the  ruined  Temple ;  this  wail  to  them  is  what  a  bull-fight 
is  to  a  Spaniard,  or  a  horse-race  to  an  Englishman. 
Goethe  calls  the   Hebrew  language  "pathetic";   it  were 


420  CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS. 

more  accurate  to  call  the  spirit  of  the  race  pathetic.  In 
all  the  writings  of  Jews,  romance,  or  song,  or  drama,  or 
opera,  there  is  a  sad  tone,  a  deep  melancholy,  even  when 
the  talk  is  of  common  things.  A  Jewish  author  may  be 
affected,  stilted,  fantastic,  prolix  in  his  extravagances,  but 
he  is  not  dull  or  dry.  His  writing  has  glow,  even  when  it 
is  the  report  of  finance  or  the  narrative  of  a  journey.  One 
may  not  fully  trust  it,  but  it  wins  sympathy  by  its  gushing 
tone.  The  Jews  write  admirable  letters.  Their  money- 
changers can  make,  like  women,  the  merest  trifles  interest- 
ing by  much  fervor  of  phrase.  This  is  a  characteristic  of 
the  race  which  no  one  can  mistake. 

But  to  match  this  is  their  equal  sagacity,  what  might 
perhaps  better  be  called  their  shi'ewdness  or  sha?-p-sighted- 
ness.  Is  there  anv  keener  race  on  the  face  of  the  earth, 
any  race  less  drawn  away  from  reason  by  sympathies,  more 
exact  to  judge,  more  clear  in  vision,  and  more  cautious 
in  conclusion  ?  With  all  those  swelling  phrases,  with  all 
those  tearful  looks  of  wonder  and  sadness,  with  all  that 
pathos  of  soul,  the  Jew  looks  at  things  as  they  are,  takes 
facts  as  he  finds  them,  and  will  not  be  led  away  by  imagin- 
ation. He  has  none  of  the  credulity  which  is  apt  to  go 
with  enthusiasm.  He  believes  only  what  he  sees,  and  he 
acts  from  sound  reasons.  No  man  is  less  willing  to  take 
the  bare  word  of  others,  or  to  take  anything  on  trust.  He 
must  see  into  everything  that  he  believes, — into  the  propo- 
sitions of  science  as  much  as  into  the  motives  of  men. 
Ardent  as  is  his  manner,  there  is  caution  in  his  glance. 
He  is  on  guard  against  some  secret  design  ;  he  seems  to 
read  something  in  the  soul  of  the  man  who  talks  with  him 
which  does  not  appear  in  the  word  or  look.  The  ancient 
Hebrews  had  to  use  that  sharp  sight  in  reading  their 
sacred  books,  where  there  were  no  signs  of  vowels,  and 
the  right  sound  of  the  words  was  not  easy  to  see  at  once. 
A  Jew  who  reads  his  Bible  without  the  aid  of  the  Masora 
has  constantly  to  "judge"  in  his  pronunciation  of  the 
syllables.  This  shrewdness  of  the  race  appears  not  only 
in  their  sharp  bargains,  their  transactions  in  Rag  Fair,  and 
on  the  Exchange,  but  in  their  love  for  verbal  subtleties, 
for  puns  and  puzzles.  The  Talmud,  which  holds  their 
character  as  much  as  their  wisdom,  is  at  once  a  collection 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  421 

of  wild  fancies  and  of  shrewd  aphorisms,  of  imaginations 
transcending  experience,  and  of  quaint  sayings  coming 
from  microscopic  studies.  The  Jews  prefer  visions  to 
moralizing,  and  are  not  lovers  of  syllogisms.  They  will 
"jump  at  conclusions"  when  they  can,  but  they  are  quite 
sure  of  their  distance  and  their  footing  before  they  make 
the  leap.  They  are  not  loose  reasoners,  and  they  use  the 
French  point  more  than  the  German  period.  Jewish  ex- 
travagance is  not  an  expansion  of  the  argument,  but  a  dis- 
play of  light  around  it  —  a  luminous  atmosphere  around  a 
central  core,  like  the  light  around  the  sun.  The  Jew  loves 
t6  put  the  truth  into  a  keen  question.  He  is  as  Socratic 
as  the  Yankee.  His  queries  are  crushing  and  decisive, 
and  he  asks  them,  not  for  information,  but  as  the  utterance 
of  an  undeniable  verdict.  All  the  senses  of  the  Jew  are 
alert  and  active.  He  is  watching  and  listening,  even  when 
he  seems  to  be  negligent  or  absorbed  in  his  own  thought. 
His  highest  rapture  never  carries  him  away  from  scrutiny 
of  what  is  around  him. 

3.  A  third  contrast  in  the  character  of  the  Jewish  race 
is  that  of  sfad/e  and  progressive;  or,  to  use  the  larger 
epithets  of  our  time,  conservative  and  radical.  The  Jew 
holds  fast  to  traditions,  yet  is  inquisitive  of  novelties  and 
ready  to  seize  inventions.  He  prides  himself  upon  his 
ancient  Law  which  has  outlived  the  laws  of  civilized  lands; 
boasts  that  he  belongs  to  the  oldest  time  by  the  statutes 
which  he  obeys,  and  the  customs  which  he  keeps ;  that  he 
eats  and  drinks,  works  and  prays,  according  to  the  teach- 
ing of  holy  men  of  old  ;  his  glory  is  in  the  consistency  of 
the  present  way  with  the  former  rule.  Even  the  most 
radical  Jew  prizes  a  sort  of  conservatism,  and  has  a  respect 
for  antiquity  which  no  speculations  can  overthrow.  He 
always  feels  that  his  faith  is  well  founded,  that  there  is 
something  solid  under  him,  that  his  feet  are  upon  the  rock, 
and  that  if  he  changes  he  is  not  blown  about  by  the  wind. 
He  may  give  up  many  things  which  the  fathers  believed, 
may  condense  and  expurgate  the  mass  of  his  traditions  ; 
but  in  the  piocess  he  only  makes  their  outline  clearer  and 
their  essence  more  substantial.  He  may  use  for  practical 
ends  the  dialects  of  the  Gentile  peoples,  but  his  own  divine 
language  remains.     The   Hebrew  is   not  corrupted,  but  is 


42  2  CnARACTEBISTICS  OF  THE  JEWS. 

as  pure  in  the  synagogue  to-day  as  it  was  in  the  Temple  in 
Jerusalem.  The  Romaic  Greek  of  modern  Athens,  with 
all  the  restorations  of  modern  scholars,  is  quite  another 
thins:  from  the  Greek  of  Thucvdides  or  Plato.  The  Latin 
of  the  Catholic  schools,  mediaeval  and  monkish,  is  not  the 
Latin  of  Seneca  or  of  Tully.  But  the  Hebrew  which  the 
Israelite  children  hear  in  Holland  and  Poland  and  Mexico 
and  Morocco  is  just  as  pure  as  the  Hebrew  that  was  heard 
in  Samuel's  schools  of  the  prophets.  This  sacred  lan- 
guage is  fixed,  and  no  improvement  will  be  allowed  in  it. 

And  there  is  no  prominent  race  in  any  civilized  land 
which  keeps  so  much  of  antiquity  in  their  life  as  the  Jews. 
The  Basques  of  the  Pyrenees,  the  Celts  of  Brittany,  the 
Finns  and  the  Lapps,  and  a  few  other  small  tribes  of 
Europe,  keep  very  ancient  customs,  and  have  the  signs  of 
a  prehistoric  time.  But  these  tribes  are  insignificant,  and 
are  rapidly  dying  out;  while  the  Jews,  with  customs  still 
older,  are  flourishing  and  increasing,,  and  are  a  strong  force 
in  the  world.  In  the  flux  and  confusion  of  modern  agita- 
tions, the  Jews  show  something  stable.  The  claim  of  the 
Catholic  Church  for  its  doctrine  is  illustrated  in  the  spirit 
of  this  people.  They  worship  ancestors  almost  as  much 
as  the  Chinese.  English  and  Spanish  pedigrees  are  short 
compared  with  those  of  the  poorest  sons  of  Israel.  The 
most  ancient  proverbs  enter  into  the  conimon  speech,  — 
are  the  daily  discourse  and  the  permanent  wisdom  of  the 
family.  Even  when  Jewish  sermons  are  bold  in  criticisms 
and  denials,  they  are  full  of  the  sacred  phrases.  Jewish 
stories  seem  to  recall  the  hills  and  the  streams,  the  vines 
and  the  flocks,  of  the  Canaan  beloved,  even  though  the 
scene  be  laid  in  other  lands.  In  all  that  one  reads  about 
this  race,  the  impression  of  stability  is  constant;  every 
Israelite  seems  in  some  sense  to  realize  the  legend  of  the 
"wandering  Jew,"  holding  to  life  over  the  changes  of 
empires  and  ages.  The  very  children  of  the  race  look 
old,  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  past  more  than  they  belong 
to  the  present. 

And  yet  development  and  growth  have  always  marked 
this  Jewish  race,  as  they  do  to-day.  The  Pharisaism  of 
Herod's  time  was  an  improvement  upon  the  Ritualism  of 
Solomon's  time.      The   Babylonish  Talmud   improved  as 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  423 

much  as  it  enlarged  the  Jerusalem  Talmud.  The  Jews 
have  had  their  sects  as  well  as  the  Christians  —  their 
inquirers,  their  freethinkers.  The  Caraites  keep  their 
synagogue  still,  as  they  have  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years.  The  history  of  Jewish  literature  seems  to  show  an 
ardor  for  novelties,  a  quick  ear  for  new  revelations.  If 
the  Jew  feels  that  his  feet  are  upon  the  rock,  his  eye  and 
his  hand  are  free,  and  his  lonofinc:  is  not  satisfied  bv  his 
solid  foundation.  He  has  an  insatiate  and  irrepressible 
curiosity.  "Prove  all  things "  was  the  word  of  a  Jew, 
though  he  coupled  with  it  the  other  precept,  "  Hold  fast 
what  is  good."  This  progressive  spirit  is  seen  in  the  way 
in  which  the  Jews  handle  their  Law.  They  by  no  means 
treat  this  as  a  fetish,  to  be  shrined,  and  ignorantly  wor- 
shipped. They  are  perpetually  examining  it,  making 
comments  upon  it,  prying  into  it,  bringing  it  into  new 
relations.  No  law  is  more  manipulated.  It  is  elastic  in 
their  use,  and  each  Rabbin  is  skillful  to  make  it  prove  his 
own  theories.  The  Law  is  the  same  as  it  was  in  Gamaliel's 
synagogue,  but  its  exposition  is  new,  and  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  In  fact,  that  Messianic  hope,  which  looks  for- 
ward and  not  backward,  compels  the  Jew  to  be  in  some 
sense  a  radical.  One  who  seeks  a  better  country,  a  new 
glory,  a  restoration  and  renovation,  cannot  be  content 
with  present  things.  The  very  restlessness  of  this  for- 
ward-looking means  progress.  An  unsatisfied  race  must 
be  an  improving  race.  And  every  Jew  must  believe  in 
progress,  not  only  as  he  hopes  for  a  kingdom  to  come,  but 
as  he  compares  the  condition  of  his  people  now  with  their 
condition  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand,  or  even  two  thousand, 
years  ago.  The  fortunes  of  the  race  exemplify  the  doc- 
trine of  progress,  as  they  have  risen  to  the  honors  of  the 
courts  of  kings,  and  hold  in  their  hand  the  wealth  of  the 
nations. 

4.  Another  evident  contrast  in  the  character  of  the  Jews 
is  that  of  subjective  and  objective^  or  to  use  a  less  scholastic 
phrase,  of  selfishness  and  gene?'Osity.  The  Jew  is  an  egotist, 
and  never  loses  his  personality,  never  forgets  himself, 
always  looks  out  for  his  own  interest.  As  Jellinek  says, 
the  world  is  his  anvil,  while  he  is  the  hammer.  He  cares 
for  his  own  fortune,  his  own  comfort,  his  own  destiny.     He 


42+  CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS, 

is  not  content  to  be  a  part  of  the  universe,  a  fraction  ;  he 
must  be  the  centre,  the  ruler,  the  shaping  influence  in  the 
surrounding  circumstances.  He  is  very  jealous  of  his 
freedom  and  his  rights,  and  will  not  give  these  up.  He 
has  no  love  for  abstractions,  or  for  truth  separate  from 
personal  gain.  He  does  not  take  kindly  to  organizations 
in  which  his  individuality  is  compromised  or  merged.  As 
artisan,  or  merchant,  or  banker,  he  prefers  to  be  untram- 
meled,  and  not  to  be  bound  by  the  rules  of  any  guild.  If 
he  joins  an  association,  the  obligations  hold  lightly  upon 
him,  and  a  slisfht  cause  will  break  them.  The  clannishness 
o£  the  Jews  in  questions  of  race  by  no  means  implies  the 
loss  of  individual itv  in  the  sreneral  interest  of  the  whole. 
There  are  jealousies,  rivalries,  and  divisions  enough  within 
this  apparent  union.  Of  each  other,  the  Jews  are  often 
unmerciful  critics.  Their  spirit  is  essentially  aristocratic ; 
each  one  is  inclined  to  think  himself  superior  to  the  rest, 
and  to  overrate  his  importance,  and  to  get  recognition  of 
personal  worth.  No  people  make  more  use  of  the  first 
personal  pronoun  ;  no  one  is  more  unwilling  than  the  Jew 
to  lose  credit  for  his  work,  or  have  another  take  his  proper 
praise.  They  do  not  write  anonymously.  The  thing  done 
is  good  to  the  man  because  he  has  done  it. 

This  Jewish  egotism  is  shown  in  some  peculiarities  of 
their  ancient  tongue.  For  the  pronoun  "  I,"  the  Hebrew 
has  two  forms.  For  the  pronoun  '"  we,"  three  forms.  The 
word  '•  self  ''  has  several  equivalents.  Words  expressing 
subjective  qualities  are  rich  in  synonyms.  There  are 
twelve  words  which  mean  to  "  think,"  twelve  words  which 
mean  to  ''  hide,"  eighteen  words  which  mean  to  '"  see," 
twenty-one  words  which  mean  to  "speak;"  while  to 
"  speak  "  and  to  ''  think  "  can  be  expressed  by  the  same 
word.  In  everything  which  belongs  to  personality,  to 
individuality,  the  Hebrew  language  is  redundant.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  language  is  poor  in  conjunctions,  in  words 
which  seem  to  join  men  to  the  men  or  things  around  them. 
And  this  linguistic  peculiarity  is  seen  in  the  literature  of 
the  Jews,  which  deals  with  personal  fortunes  more  than 
with  general  ideas.  The  Jew  is  interested  in  the  illustra- 
tion of  his  own  experience,  and  cares  little  for  mere  phil- 
osophy.   That  slur  of  the  wise  Preacher  upon  mere  wisdom 


CUAUACTEIIISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  425 

suits  the  Hebrew  people  still,  and  they  have  contempt  for 
metaphysical  problems.  The  Hebrew  would  know  about 
himself,  when  he  came,  what  he  is,  and  what  will  become 
of  him,  and  has  not  much  heed  of  the  philosophy  of  other 
things.  He  rejects,  however,  most  enerf^etically,  the 
materialist  theory  of  mind  as  the  product  of  mere  sensa- 
tion, —  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which  the  senses  inscribe  all 
that  is  written.  The  Jews  prefer  a  philosophy  which  is 
bound  up  in  the  events  of  a  human  life. 

Other  illustrations  misrht  be  sfiven  of  this  es^otism  of  the 
Jews,  such  as  the  imputation  in  debate  with  rivals  of 
personal  motives,  or  the  tendency  to  find  the  ideas  of 
Gentile  writers  in  their  own  books,  which  sometimes 
betrays  them  into  anachronisms.  But  the  objective  charac- 
ter of  the  Jews,  their  unselfishness,  is  equally  marked. 
First,  there  is  their  family  love,  the  love  of  parents  with 
children,  of  brothers  with  sisters,  as  strong  now  as  in  the 
days  of  the  patriarchs.  The  finest  style  of  family  life  is 
seen  in  Jewish  households.  Then  there  is  their  hospi- 
tality, the  virtue  of  an  Israelite  as  much  as  of  an  Ishmael- 
ite.  Then  there  is  their  spirit  of  compassion  for  the  poor 
and  suffering.  No  people  care  so  well  for  those  of  their 
race  who  are  sick  or  old  or  wretched  as  the  Jews.  The 
synagogue  is  not  more  important  than  the  hospital. 
Christian  mercy  is  only  borrowed  from  the  Jewish  virtue, 
emphatically  enjoined  in  the  Sacred  Books.  There  are  no 
Jewish  beggars,  not  only  because  the  people  are  too  proud 
to  beg,  but  because  the  want  of  the  poor  is  met  so  well  by 
brotherlv  kindness. 

And  the  objective  character  of  the  Jews  appears  in  their 
care  for  the  opinion  of  other  races  about  them.  They  are 
not  self-sufficient,  thousrh  thev  are  self-conscious.  Thev 
are  gregarious,  too ;  they  like  to  live  in  neighborhoods, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  other  peoples.  History  tells 
us  of  no  Jewish  hermits,  and  the  worst  curse  upon  a  Jew 
is  that  which  sends  him  away  from  his  kind.  They  go 
away  only  as  they  are  driven,  and  their  whole  exile  is  a 
season  of  complaining.  They  have  not  the  spirit  of 
pioneers,  and  cannot  be  alone  with  Nature.  Jews  do  not 
like  to  live  in  communities  where  there  are  no  Gentiles. 
They  come  back  to  Christian  and   Moslem  cities  rather 


426  CUARACTERISTJCS   OF  THE  JEWS. 


than  build  cities  of  their  own,  even  when  they  have  ample 
means  to  do  this.  They  clin":  to  somethins-  outside  of 
themselves,  and  thrive  best  when  they  deal  habitually  with 
alien  races.  They  covet  the  good-will  of  others  when  they 
have  no  need  of  help  or  patronage. 

5.  Another  contrast  in  the  Jewish  character  is  that  of 
/>ride  arid  humility.  Their  es^otism  is  accompanied  by  an 
unbounded  national  pride.  The  Jew  is  proud  of  his  blood, 
of  his  lineage,  of  his  long  history,  of  his  divine  right, 
proud  that  his  people  are  the  chosen  people  of  God.  He 
is  even  proud  of  his  persecutions,  proud  that  his  race  have 
endured  such  hardness,  and  yet  have  kept  their  purity  of 
faith  and  their  identity  of  life.  The  Arab  vagabond,  who 
wears  the  green  turban,  is  more  lordly  in  his  assumption 
than  any  Pacha,  for  he  has  Mohammed  for  his  ancestor. 
And  the  Jew  in  Amsterdam  or  Frankfort  can  despise  the 
sleek  burghers  who  pity  him,  for  he  has  Abraham  for  his 
father,  while  they  are  men  of  yesterday.  That  the  Jews 
do  not  beg,  comes  largely  from  this  national  pride  ;  they 
are  afraid  and  ashamed  to  disgrace  their  hereditary  dignity. 
Exacting  as  a  creditor,  co?"npelling  payment  of  all  that  is 
"  nominated  in  the  bond,"  the  Jew  asks  no  favors,  and 
would  rather  seem  to  do  them  than  to  ask  them.  The 
Israelite  pawnbroker,  who  loans  on  a  pledge  of  five  times 
the  value  of  his  loan,  with  an  interest  of  twenty  or  of  forty 
per  cent.,  keeps  the  air  of  one  who  is  conferring  a  gift. 
Every  Jew  is  more  or  less  a  Pharisee  in  this  national 
pride. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  in  outward  appearance,  the  Jew 
is  the  humblest  of  men.  His  manner  is  supple  and  defer- 
ent. His  gait  is  bent  and  shuffling.  He  keeps  out  of  the 
way  of  others,  and  gives  them  the  path.  His  address  is 
mild,  insinuating,  full  of  apologies,  excuses,  protests  of 
unworthiness.  He  is  ready  to  accommodate,  and  take  the 
lowest  seat.  In  public  places  he  keeps  in  the  background. 
He  walks  with  downcast  look,  like  the  publican  in  the 
parable.  Arrogant  as  he  may  be  in  heart,  he  is  respectful 
in  manner ;  his  arrogance  has  no  noisy  boast.  Shylock 
may  despise  Antonio  as  "a  fawning  publican,"  but  to  a 
looker-on,  Shylock  fawns  and  apologizes  much  more  than 
the  Christian  merchant.     The  words  are  humble,  though 


CUARACTERISTJCS   OF  THE  JE]VS.  427 


they  mav  hold  a  hitent  satire.  A  haughty  Jew  is  a  rare 
phenomenon.  The  wealthy  banker,  who  handles  his  mil- 
lions in  London,  and  ranks  with  nobles  of  the  realm, 
is  as  meek  in  address  as  the  servile  money-changer  in 
Cairo,  who  sits  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  The  Jew  may 
feel  like  a  lord  in  the  heritage  of  God  in  which  he  has  the 
right  of  the  first  born,  bat  his  very  nobility  constrains  him 
in*  his  intercourse  with  men  to  take  the  servant's  place. 
Jesus  was  never  truer  to  his  nation's  spirit  than  when  he 
said  to  his  followers  :  "Let  him  among  you  that  would  be 
greatest  be  your  servant."  That  is  the  Jewish  way  of 
gaining  position,  not  in  the  offensive  style  of  command, 
but  in ^a  "voluntary  humiliation,"  in  taking  the  servant's 
place,  in  seeming  modesty.  One  may  notice  in  the  cities 
that  the  Hebrew  tradesmen  make  much  less  parade  in 
their  sio-ns  and  their  announcements  than  the  Christian 
tradesmen,  do  not  hang  flags  across  the  streets,  or  put 
forth  monstrous  placards.  The  largest  operators  are  the 
least  ostentatious.  The  proud  race  of  Israel,  with  their 
pedigree  of  four  thousand  years,  humble  themselves  before 
the  Gentiles  who  have  no  ancestry. 

6.  And  equally  marked  in  the  Jewish  character,  is  the 
contrast  of  passion  and  patiejice.  While  "  sufferance  is  the 
badge  of  all  the  tribe,"  no  race  is  quicker  to  take  offence, 
and'' to  show  anger  in  look  and  gesture.  The  wrath  of 
Shvlock,  learning  his  daughter's  disgrace  and  flight,  is  the 
sign  of  an  enduring  trait  in  his  race.  A  rash  humor  runs 
in'^their  blood.  They  may  "pocket  the  insult,"  but  they 
feel  it,  and  they  show  that  they  feel  it.  Anger  is  one  of 
their  national  passions,  and  they  share  it  with  their  Jeho- 
vah, whose  wrath  is  real,  though  it  abates  so  readily.  In 
the  Jewish  ethics,  anger  is  not  a  sin  ;  even  the  Christian 
Apostle  excused  it  as  a  natural  impulse.  The  enthusiasm 
of  the  race  shows  itself  often  in  this  practical  fashion,  and 
even  policy  or  fear  cannot  always  suppress  the  hot  rage 
which  was  royal  in  the  wrath  of  Saul  or  Moses.  In  the 
Jewish  quarters  of  European  cities  an  impression  is  left 
upon  the  mind  of  the  foreign  visitor  of  perpetual  disputing  ; 
the  language  and  gesture  are  those  of  Billingsgate,  and 
one  looks  to  see  a  speedy  war  of  blows  follow  the  war  of 
sharp  words.     In  Jerusalem,  to-day,  the  Sephardim  speak 


428  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  JEWS. 

of  the  Ashkenazim  in  tones  which  are  quite  other  than 
kindly.  A  Jew  in  whose  heart  there  were  no  hatreds,  no 
vexini^  wrath,  would  not  be  true  to  his  hereditary  temper, 
would  deny  the  gift  of  his  dark-eyed  mother.  Much  of 
his  joy  comes  in  the  indulgence  of  his  angers  ;  this  gives 
vitality  to  his  blood,  and  arrests  physical  decay.  Fagin, 
in  the  Dickens  story,  relieves  himself  in  his  avarice  and 
his  falsehood  by  explosions  of  wrath  upon  the  instruments 
of  his  cunning.  The  chief  artistic  defect  in  the  character 
of  Nathan  the  Wise  is  that  this  passion  is  wanting,  that 
the  noble  man  never  gives  way  to  indignation,  not  only 
bears  injustice,  but  bears  it  with  so  much  composure.  He 
is  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  be  a  genuine  Jew.  Elijah, 
denouncing  Ahab  and  Jezebel ;  Paul,  calling  Ananias  a 
whited  wall,  forgetting  in  his  wrath  the  High  Priest's 
dignity,  are  more  accurate  types  of  the  Jewish  character 
than  the  calm  sage  of  the  German  drama,  who  not  only 
suppresses  his  anger,  but  seems  never  to  feel  it. 

Yet  over  against  this  passion  see  the  infinite  patience  of 
the  race.  To  no  people  on  the  earth  so  much  as  this  is 
the  epithet  "  long-suffering  "  rightly  applied.  They  have 
won  it  by  centuries  of  oppression.  If  patience  were  not 
the  virtue  of  the  fathers,  it  certainly  would  be  the  virtue  of 
the  children.  The  wise  Koheleth  said  that  "  the  patient 
in  spirit  is  better  than  the  proud  in  spirit,"  and  the  wiser 
son  of  Sirach  exalts  this  virtue.  The  proverbs  which 
commend  patience  are  Hebrew  in  their  origin.  The  Dutch 
learned  their  familiar  sentence,  "  Gediild  gaat  boven  geleerd- 
heid'"  —  "  patience  goes  beyond  learning,"  — from  the  Jews 
who  dwelt  in  their  land.  The  special  grace  of  Job  is  the 
national  boast  of  the  Hebrews.  They  need  no  exhorta- 
tion to  labor  and  to  wait,  for  there  is  nothing  which  they 
cannot  bear,  and  have  not  borne ;  insults,  frauds,  false- 
hoods, blows,  every  kind  of  injustice,  are  all  patt  of  their 
long  training  in  suffering  and  patience.  The  duty  now  is 
an  instinct  as  much  as  a  principle.  The  Jew,  in  sadness 
of  soul,  may  cry,  "  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long  1 "  Yet 
he  will  endure  and  not  faint,  though  the  Lord  should  still 
hold  back  for  a  thousand  years. 

7.  The  next  pair  of  contrasted  traits  to  be  noted  in  the 
Jewish  character  are  lavishness  and  economy.     The  second 


CHARACrEEISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  429 

of  these  is  so  much  brought  out  in  novels  and  plays  that  it 
seems  almost  a  paradox  to  speak  of  Jewish  luxury.  Yet 
there  is  no  race  on  the  earth  more  given  to  luxuries  than 
the  Hebrew.  We  find  this  in  the  invectives  of  the 
prophets  against  the  feasts  of  men  and  the  dresses  of 
women.  In  the  time  of  Jesus,  indeed,  there  was  an 
ascetic  sect,  and  his  forerunner  came  crying  in  the  desert 
in  a  camel's-hair  cloak  and  a  leathern  girdle,  and  feeding 
on  mean  food.  But  for  all  that,  asceticism  was  not  in  the 
temper  of  Israel,  and  the  Essenes  wer^  eccentric,  with  but 
small  influence  on  the  national  character.  The  modern 
Jew  is  certainly  not  ascetic.  He  loves  show%  he  fills  his 
house  with  fine  furniture,  and  follows  close,  where  he  does 
not  lead,  the  most  extravagant  fashion.  Not  only  are  the 
daughters  of  Israel  profuse  in  their  jewelry,  but  the  men, 
too,  wear  rings  upon  their  fingers,  and  diamonds  in  their 
bosoms.  A  Jew  prefers  to  spend  his  money  for  trinkets 
and  trappings  rather  than  for  books  and  implements  ;  he 
may  do  without  the  necessaries  of  life,  but  he  cannot  spare 
its  luxuries.  He  must  be  very  poor  not  to  have  some 
special  indulgence,  something  to  feast  his  eyes.  Specta- 
cles of  all  kinds,  balls,  operas,  concerts,  find  their  best 
patrons  in  the  children  of  Jacob.  No  conscientious 
scruples  restrain  them  ;  and  they  are  willing  by  their  attire 
and  their  prominence  to  bear  a  full  part  in  the  show.  In 
the  davs  of  David  and  Hezekiah,  music  and  dancing 
entered  into  the  Jewish  worship,  and  no  religious  prohibi- 
tion hinders  this  passion,  or  puts  it  under  ban.  The 
luxury  of  the  Jews  is  not  less  real  that  it  is  so  often  con- 
cealed from  the  vulgar  gaze.  The  outside  of  the  Jewish 
houses  in  Damascus  is  blank  and  forbidding;  the  walls  are 
sodden  and  gray,  and  weeds  grow  in  the  crevices.  But 
when  the  doorway  is  passed  and  the  court-yard  is  reached, 
there  are  bright  mosaics,  and  plashing  fountains,  and 
mirrors  in  the  walls,  and  damsels  in  rich  attire  of  colors 
and  gold.  Solomon,  the  magnificent,  presents  the  Hebrew 
idea  of  wisdom  ;  to  have  such  possessions  and  displays 
that  the  world  shall  look  on  with  envy  and  wonder.  The 
Jew  banker,  with  his  four-in-hand  equipage  on  the  avenue 
in  Newport,  represents  fairly  the  luxury  of  his  race. 

To  dwell  on   the  economy  of  the  Jews,  which  balances 


430  CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS. 

their  luxury,  would  simply  repeat  the  universal  prejudice. 
"  As  rich  as  a  Jew,"  is  a  proverb  ;  but  the  common  idea  is 
that  the  Jew  gets  rich  more  by  parsimony  than  by  enter- 
prise ;  that  he  /ays  up  his  money  while  he  uses  it.  The 
traditional  Jew  of  history  and  romance  is  the  miser,  clutch- 
ing his  gold,  hiding  his  gains,  rejoicing  in  his  hoards,  wast- 
ing nothing.  His  congenial  trades  are  those  in  which  there 
is  no  loss  of  substance,  such  as  money-changing ;  or  in 
which  refuse  is  gathered  and  used,  in  cloth  or  in  metal. 
Doubtless  this  Jewish  habit  is  greatly  exaggerated.  Japhet 
has  its  misers  as  much  as  the  race  of  Shem.  The  Scot  is 
as  canny  in  turning  a  penny  as  an  Israelite  of  pure  blood  ; 
and  the  sons  of  Abraham  find  their  match  in  savino^  amonsr 
the  sons  of  the  Puritans.  The  Jew  is  sometimes  cheated 
by  the  Yankee.  Nevertheless,  the  Jews  are  a  saving  folk, 
and  seldom  spend  more  than  they  have  or  more  than  they 
earn.  The  luxury  is  within  the  limit  of  their  fortune.  The 
prodigal  son  is  an  exception  in  their  families,  and  the 
young  Hebrew  goes  to  the  far  country  more  to  trade  and  ac- 
cumulate than  to  waste  his  substance  in  riotous  livinor.  Yox 
this  race  the  Gentile  rule  of  fortunes  squandered  in  the 
second  or  third  generation  is  not  valid  ;  the  thrift  is  trans- 
mitted, and  the  hoards  are  increased  in  the  new  genera- 
tions. Left  to  themselves,  and  not  hampered  by  disabilities 
or  vexed  by  persecutions,  the  Jews  are  sure  to  grow  rich  ; 
and  they  will  grow  rich,  even  when  they  are  vexed  and  op- 
pressed. All  their  reading  of  the  cynical  sentences  of  the 
Preacher  about  the  vanity  of  riches,  of  the  prayer  of  Agur 
for  the  just  mean  of  property,  cannot  weaken  their  desire  to 
lay  up  store  of  earthly  treasure.  They  are  hard-money  men, 
and  they  believe  in  coin  as  the  one  thing  substantial,  if 
not  the  one  thing  needful.  Their  aristocracy  is  also  a  plu- 
tocracy, like  the  English,  and  the  neglect  to  use  the  occa- 
sion of  adding  to  their  fortune  is  a  foolish  blunder,  if  not 
an  unpardonable  sin. 

8.  One  more  contrast  in  the  Jewish  character  must  be 
mentioned,  —  of  dogmatism  and  tolerance.  On  one  side  the 
Jews  are  intensely  dogmatic.  They  insist  that  their  own 
religion  is  the  best,  the  saving  religion  ;  that  it  is  revealed 
and  divine  ;  that  it  came  from  God,  and  has  a  sanction 
which  no  other  can  have.     They  know  that  they  are  right. 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  431 

Their  doctrine  is  positive.  Tliey  have  no  questions,  no 
exceptions,  no  hesitation  in  their  assertion,  no  quahfica- 
tions.  Their  only  apology  for  their  faith  is  in  the  works  of 
Philo.  Neither  for  the  foundation  nor  for  the  substance  of 
his  belief  does  the  Jew  seek  outside  arguments,  ''reasons 
for  believing."  The  reason  and  the  argument  are  in  the 
faith  itself.  It  is  almost  as  self-evident  to  him  as  a  mathe- 
matical axiom.  In  every  Jewish  treatise  or  history  this 
sturdy  dogmatism  appears,  not  weakened  by  any  doubt, 
but  strict  and  outspoken.  The  controversy  is  not  timid, 
but  aggressive.  Outnumbered  twenty-fold  as  the  Jew  is 
in  his  dispute  with  united  Christendom,  he  is  as  brave  and 
confident  before  this  vast  force,  in  this  unequal  strife,  as 
David  was  before  Goliath.  He  is  a  zealot,  as  ardent  as  any 
of  the  ancient  sect,  though  he  is  more  prudent  than  the  zeal- 
ots who  destroyed  the  kingdom  in  their  zeal  for  the  Law 
and  Prophets. 

And  yet,  with  all  this  dogmatism,  the  Jewish  race  is  tol- 
erant, and  practices  toleration  more  frankly  than  any  Chris- 
tian sect.  It  never  molests  other  religions  ;  has  no  spirit 
of  propagandism  ;  uses  no  arts  of  sectarian  increase.  It  lets 
other  races  get  salvation  in  their  own  way.  It  may  be 
said  that  such  charity  is  easy  and  politic  for  a  race  which 
has  no  power  to  persecute,  which  is  hopelessly  inferior  in 
force  ;  and  that  no  one  knows  what  the  Jews  would  do  iu 
a  changed  situation,  and  with  a  majority  on  their  side. 
But  they  never  were  a  proselyting  people,  even  in  the  day 
of  their  strong  empire ;  and  the  assertion  of  Keim  that 
they  were,  is  not  justified  by  their  authentic  annals.  Solo- 
mon did  not  compel  his  subjects  or  his  captives  to  worship 
Jehovah;  on  the  contrary,  he  left  the  natives  around  him 
to  their  own  gods,  and  even  gave  these  gods  room  and  wel- 
come upon  the  hills  of  Judea.  There  is  no  evidence  that 
he  converted  the  Queen  of  Sheba  to  the  faith  of  Israel,  or 
sent  her  home  to  give  to  her  people  the  sacrifices  of  Mo- 
riah,  or  the  laws  of  Sinai.  The  Jews  receive  only  volun- 
tary converts,  and  use  no  pleading  or  threatening  to  gain 
them.  They  leave  other  sects  to  stand  or  fall,  each  by  its 
own  light,  and  to  its  own  master.  The  bigotry  which  is 
the  sin  of  so  many  of  our  Christian  journals  is  not  con- 
spicuous in  what  the  Jewish  journals  say  of  the  Christian 


432  CHARACTERISTICS   OF  THE  JEWS. 

sects.  They  allow  to  others  the  freedom  which  they  claim 
for  themselves.  If  they  do  not  answer  cursing  with  bless- 
ing, they  have  no  actual  anathemas.  They  let  their  foes 
alone.  The  Jew  has  his  own  Sabbath,  but  he  does  not 
grudge  to  the  Moslem  or  to  the  Christian  their  sacred  days, 
the  Friday  or  the  Sunday,  the  first  or  the  sixth  da}'  of  the 
week.  He  does  not  wish  them  to  intrude  in  his  house, 
but  in  their  own  houses  they  may  act  their  pleasure. 

These  evident  contrasts  in  the  character  of  the  Jewish 
race  seem  to  prove  to  its  loyal  children,  such  as  Rabbi  Jel- 
linek,  that  it  holds  the  future  of  human  destiny;  that  it  is 
the  reconciling  race  which  shall  fulfill  the  prophecy  of 
joining  the  lion  and  the  lamb,  and  shall  make  the  synthesis 
of  the  opposites  in  custom  and  faith.  More  interesting  to 
the  Jews  even  than  their  former  story,  so  full  of  providence 
and  deliverance,  and  triumph,  comfort  in  captivity,  restora- 
tion after  sorrows,  is  the  question  of  their  future  destiny. 
In  the  heart  of  the  people  there  is  a  lasting  confidence 
that  a  new  Jerusalem  better  than  the  old  shall  come ;  and 
that  the  glory  of  the  former  record  shall  be  pale  in  the 
brightness  of  the  coming  kingdom.  But  where  and  how 
shall  this  kingdom  come  ?  Shall  it  be  literal  restoration 
to  the  ancient  land  so  long  desolate,  a  new  throne  on  the 
hill  of  the  Palace  and  the  Temple,  a  gathering  of  the 
people  from  all  the  lands  of  the  Gentiles  to  the  narrow 
region  which  was  so  "goodly"  to  the  eyes  of  their  fathers? 
This  crude  Messianic  hope  still  clings  in  the  longings  of 
the  ignorant ;  and  in  the  synagogue-prayer  that  the 
Redeemer  may  soon  come  to  Zion,  they  seem  to  see  the 
thronging  and  jubilant  pilgrimage  back  to  the  deserted 
seats.  But  intelligent  Jews  have  ceased  to  expect  or  wish 
for  any  such  literal  return.  They  look  for  a  spiritual 
kingdom  as  broad  as  the  world,  and  not  fixed  in  any  land 
or  on  any  hill.  The  new  temple  will  not  be  on  Gerizim  or 
in  Jerusalem,  but  in  the  hearts  of  men.  The  triumph  of 
their  race  is  not  to  be  in  its  concentration  apart,  but 
in  its  influence  in  moulding  the  characters  and  purifying 
the  faith  of  other  races.  The  joy  of  the  Jews  now  is 
in  the  thou2:ht  that  thev  are  as  leaven  in  the  civilization 
of  men,  and  that  the  best  human  things,  the  highest 
moral  and  religious    ideas,  come  through  them  and  their 


CUARACTEIUSTICS   OF  THE  JEWS.  433 

ancient  Law.  They  see  the  Messiah's  advent  in  the 
recognition  which  they  are  gaining,  in  tlie  respect  for 
their  position,  in  the  influence  of  their  industry,  their 
genius,  and  their  hope.  Their  kingdom  comes  as  they 
sustain  the  cheer  and  hinder  the  despair  of  the  world 
around  them.  While  they  would  hold  their  purity  of 
blood  and  of  race,  they  have  no  wish  to  draw  back  from 
that  contact  with  the  Gentiles,  which  has  so  enlarged  the 
dominion  of  their  ideas,  and  given  them  the  heathen  for 
inheritance.  The  Jewish  wise  men  now  teach  that  the 
mission  of  their  race  is  to  do  for  the  whole  earth  what  it 
did  for  Canaan  after  its  years  of  wandering, — to  subdue 
opposing  forces,  to  civilize  and  to  bless.  Everywhere  they 
are  dropping  what  is  only  narrow  and  technical,  and  insist- 
ing more  upon  the  broad  and  universal  part  of  the  creed. 
Unlike  the  Roman  church,  which  stands  immovable  in  the 
progress  of  the  ages,  learning  nothing  from  the  world's 
wisdom,  and  only  iterating  the  old  formulas,  the  Jewish 
wisdom  moves  with  the  age,  and  adapts  itself  to  the  world's 
spirit.  This  race  belongs  to  the  nineteenth  century  as 
much  as  young  Germany,  or  young  France,  or  young 
America.  It  springs  to  the  new  work  of  opening  the 
resources  of  continents,  and  quickening  the  social  forces. 
It  is  all  alive  with  interest  in  the  things  which  are  present, 
and  has  small  care  for  mere  recollection  of  former  days. 
A  few  Jews  go  off  to  Jerusalem  with  the  pious  purpose  of 
finding  a  grave  with  their  fathers.  But  no  Jew,  who  has 
the  sense  of  a  living  soul  within  him,  or  of  a  work  in  his 
own  age,  wishes  a  ^ome  in  that  land  of  graves.  He  finds 
his  home  close  to  his  place  of  labor,  and  he  builds  his 
temple  there,  solid  and  visible,  to  stand  as  long  as  any 
religious  house.  The  avenues  of  flourishing  cities  are  to 
him  more  charming  than  the  lanes  of  Zion,  where  the 
holy  stones  have  long  been  trodden  under  the  feet  of  men. 
There  is  more  of  Jerusalem  where  he  can  see  the  evident 
strength  of  his  race,  than  where  he  can  only  read  its  dim 
and  fading  legend.  Now  that  the  Jew  has  become  a  man 
among  men,  a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  not  its  outcast,  he 
does  not  seek  the  city  where  his  outcast  state  is  inevitably 
brought  to  his  remembrance.  When  Israel  was  hated  and 
spurned,  it  might  wish  to  find  a  home  in  its  former  land  oi 
28 


434  CUARACTEEISTICS  OF  THE  JEWS, 

rest.  But  now  that  the  burden  is  lifted  off,  now  that  it  is 
free  from  its  task-master,  it  is  better  satisfied  with  the  new 
privilege  which  the  Lord  has  given,  and  finds  in  its  disper- 
sion that  it  inherits  the  earth  in  a  wider  sense  than  was 
meant  by  the  seers  when  they  spoke  its  destiny  and  its 
future  glory. 


CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION.  435 


XVIII. 

CHRISTIANITY   THE   UNIVERSAL   RELIGION. 

Acts  iv.  12. — "Neither  is  there  salvation  in  any  other:  for  there  is 
none  other  name  given  among  men  whereby  we  must  be  saved." 

Peter,  in  this  answer  to  the  rulers  and  elders,  speaks 
not  so  much  of  spiritual  as  of  physical  salvation.  The 
cripple  at  the  gate  was  made  whole,  he  says,  by  the  power 
of  the  risen  Christ ;  and  all  cures  of  that  kind  can  be 
wrought  by  that  power  and  that  name,  and  not  by  any 
lower  skill  or  incantation.  The  healing  of  diseases  is  in 
the  influence  of  him  who  by  the  spirit  of  God  had  been 
made  superior  to  physical  accidents  and  master  of  phys- 
ical laws.  Peter  does  not  mean  to  say  that  only  Christ 
can  give  light  to  men,  or  make  them  wise  and  happy,  but 
that  he  only  can  realize  the  prophetic  promise  of  the 
Messiah's  kingdom,  in  which  things  which  seem  impossi- 
ble shall  be  proved  real,  and  ills  of  the  flesh  shall  yield  to 
the  force  of  the  spirit.  Nor  does  he  in  this  saying  include 
any  large  surv'ey  of  the  world  beyond  the  Sacred  Land. 
He  does  not  say  that  the  heathen  of  Africa  or  Asia,  of 
whom  he  knew  nothing,  can  have  no  other  salvation,  spir- 
itual or  physical,  than  that  which  comes  through  Jesus  of 
Nazareth.  The  motive  of  the  modern  missionary  move- 
ment cannot  be  drawn  from  the  literal  intent  of  the  Apos- 
tle's word.  It  may  be  true,  and  we  may  be  glad  to  be- 
lieve, that  the  name  of  Jesus  is  the  saving  name  for  every 
kindred,  tongue  and  nation,  but  the  Apostle  does  not  say- 
so  in  this  answer  to  the  rulers  in  Jerusalem.  He  simply 
tells  them  that  no  one  of  the  great  names  which  they 
know;  no  name  of  rabbi,  or  scribe,  or  prophet,  or  priest; 
no  name  which  is  respectable  among  them,  or  has  ever 
been  used  in  their  assemblies,  has  such  power  as  the 
name  of  him  whom  they  have  crucified ;  that  the  Jesus 


436  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION, 

whom  they  have  rejected,  have  mocked,  have  outraged, 
have  slain,  lives  still,  in  spite  of  them,  and  lives  with  a 
force  and  a  grace  stronger  than  all  their  arts,  and  evident 
to  their  eyes,  with  a  force  which  they  cannot  deny  or  gain- 
say, and  of  which  they  need  the  aid  and  blessing. 

But  what  Peter  claimed  for  the  physical  power  of  Jesus 
there  in  Judea,  the  followers  of  Jesus  claim  now  for  his 
spiritual  power  everywhere.  They  say  that  he  is  Saviour 
of  the  world  from  its  ills  and  sins,  in  the  actual  scope 
and  character  of  his  Gospel,  if  not  in  its  first  design. 
They  insist  that  this  name  is  the  only  universal  name, 
eminent  above  all  others,  which  ought  to  stand  for  a  uni- 
versal religion,  and  which  will  at  some  time  or  other  stand 
for  a  universal  religion.  They  affirm  that  Christianity, 
the  religion  of  Jesus,  ought  to  be  the  religion  of  the  whole 
world,  and  that  the  world  would  anywhere  be  better  for 
having  this  religion  ;  that  the  best  religions  of  the  heathen 
are  inferior  to  this ;  that  no  religion  is  so  well  adapted  to 
the  needs  of  men ;  that  no  other  religion  can  be  univer- 
sal. Allowing,  as  every  intelligent  man  must  allow,  that 
there  is  good  in  all  religions,  and  that  the  rudest  and 
harshest  faiths  have  some  saving  influence,  the  followers 
of  Jesus  still  maintain  that  there  is  more  good  in  the 
Christian  religion,  and  that  this  contains  all  the  grace  of 
the  heathen  religions  and  more  which  they  do  not  contain. 
It  is  not  at  all  necessary  for  those  who  hold  that  the  Gos- 
pel of  Christ  is  a  universal  religion,  to  insist  that  those 
who  have  it  not,  who  do  not  know,  or  even  who  reject,  the 
name  of  the  Redeemer,  are  alien  from  God  and  the  victims 
of  his  wrath  ;  that  the  world  of  torment  is  peopled  by 
swarming  millions  who  have  died  without  confession  of 
this  name.  That  there  are  local  religions,  national  re- 
ligions, very  ancient,  very  strong  in  their  hold,  very  salu- 
tary in  their  quickening  of  reverence  and  their  restraint 
upon  wickedness,  is  willingly  admitted  by  intelligent  men, 
even  while  they  say  that  Christianity  is  better  and  ought 
to  have  sway  above  these  local  and  national  religions. 
Not  bigotry  alone  holds  the  grand  idea  of  the  universal 
reign  of  Christ.  One  may  exult  in  the  broad  harmonies 
of  the  great  German  master  of  symphony,  without  deny- 
ing the  sweetness  of  lesser  melodies  or  the  merit  of  infe- 
rior masters. 


CHIilSTIANITV  THE  UNIVERSAL   RELIGION.  437 

That  Christianity,  in  any  of  its  existing  schemes  or 
dogmatic  statements,  is  likely  to  become  the  religion  of 
the  whole  world,  no  wise  man  can  believe.  The  Roman 
Catholic  Church  makes  converts  still  among  the  heathen, 
as  it  has  made  them  for  more  than  a  thousand  years. 
Its  rites  resemble  the  heathen  rites,  and  no  very  great 
change  is  required  of  those  who  bow  down  to  wood  and 
stone  when  Rome  brings  in  her  lighted  altars  and  her 
images  of  the  saints.  Yet  it  is  preposterous  to  suppose 
that  the  creed  of  St.  Augustine  or  the  creed  of  Pope 
Pius  will  ever  be  the  rule  of  faith  for  the  whole  human 
race.  The  Calvinist  missionaries  of  Ensfland  and  Amer- 
ica  continue  to  preach  in  India  and  China,  and  in  the 
Isles  of  the  Sea,  but  they  find  only  few  adherents  among 
the  blinded  worshippers  who  live  and  die  in  those  popu- 
lous lands.  No  sensible  man  can  believe  that  the  whole 
world  will  ever  belong  to  the  Congregational  or  the  Presby- 
terian Church.  The  Church  of  En^fland  makes  laro:e 
claim,  and  gains  a  place  in  some  lands  that  own  no  alle- 
giance to  the  English  Queen ;  yet  w^ho  is  enthusiastic 
enough  to  imagine  the  whole  race  of  man  reading  from 
the  English  prayer-book,  or  confessing  the  thirty-nine  arti- 
cles ?  No  existing  creed  of  Christianity,  no  existing  sect, 
no  form  in  which  faith  is  stated,  can  be  taken  for  the 
Gospel  of  final  supreme  dominion."  The  simplest  and  most 
rational  statements  are  too  technical  for  a  universal  relisf- 
ion.  Christ  may  be  the  prevailing  name,  but  not  the 
Christ  which  any  human  systems  have  moulded  or  imag- 
ined, whether  on  earth  or  in  heaven.  The  spirit  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  not  its  form,  makes  it  universal. 

A  reason  why  some  thinkers  of  our  time  strangely  deny 
the  value  of  the  Christian  Gospel,  and  make  the  fantastic 
and  impossible  effort  to  stand  outside  of  it  in  a  Christian 
land,  is  that  they  persist  in  confounding  the  religion  itself 
with  the  forms  in  wdiich  it  has  been  fastened,  and  think 
that  it  must  always  be  encased  in  these  forms  and  can 
never  live  separate  from  them.  Christianity,  they  tell  us, 
means  the  old  ecclesiastical  confession  of  Jesus  as  very 
God,  and  if  you  cannot  take  that,  you  must  let  Christian- 
ity go.  Salvation  by  Christ  can  only  be  in  this  church 
method  ;  and  as  the  church  method  can  never  be  the  world 


43^  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 

method,  Christianity  must,  with  all  its  diffusion,  and  with 
all  the  zeal  of  its  preachers,  be  a  partial  and  temporary 
religion,  which  men,  even  in  so-called  Christian  lands,  may 
outgrow.  You  may  see  men  educated  in  our  churches  and 
religious  schools,  who  frankly  tell  you  that  the  Christian 
religion  has  done  for  them  all  that  it  can  do ;  that  they 
have  got  beyond  it ;  that  it  seems  to  them  limited  and  nar- 
row, and  that  they  will  no  longer  stay  in  its  bondage. 
And  they  argue  that  a  religion  cannot  be  universal  which 
has  not  even  power  to  hold  its  own  children.  That  the 
Gospel  of  Chris'  is  rejected  by  those  to  whom  it  has  been 
carefully  taught,  is  reason  for  denying  that  it  will  be 
accepted  outside  of  its  own  circle.  They  say  that  more 
become  heathen  at  home  in  their  unbelief  than  all  the 
heathen  who  are  converted  abroad.  The  Christian  religion 
is  only  one  of  the  religions  of  the  world,  good  in  some 
things,  but  not  perfect,  with  its  weak  points  as  well  as  its 
strong  points,  suited  to  one  class  of  men  and  one  kind  of 
civilization,  only  one  phenomenon  of  a  varied  and  hetero- 
geneous religious  life.  They  cannot  tell  what  the  universal 
religion  is  or  will  be,  but  they  are  confident  that  it  will  be 
nothing  so  special  as  Christianity,  and  nothing  that  has 
the  name  of  any  man,  whether  the  human  name  or  the 
official  name.  The  mistake  of  their  position  is  in  fasten- 
ing the  religion  itself  to  its  historic  form,  in  making  the 
Church  to  be  the  visible  house,  instead  of  the  company  of 
invisible  souls,  in  allowing  the  claim  of  the  religious  sys- 
tem to  represent  and  conclude  all  of  the  religious  life.  If 
Christianity  is  all  in  any  form  in  which  it  is  now,  or  ever 
has  been  embodied,  it  certainly  cannot  cover  the  earth  as 
the  waters  cover  the  sea.  Its  spread  will  only  be  in  de- 
tached masses,  with  wide  chasms,  and  its  triumph  will  be 
in  fortresses  set  at  intervals,  which,  strong  as  they  may  be, 
will  always  exclude  more  than  they  take  in.  Christianity 
will  not  be  a  universal  religion  merely  as  one  or  many  of 
the  Churches  establisli  missionary  stations  in  all  lands, 
because  at  some  time  or  other  one  mav  be  able  to  hear 
the  Catholic  mass,  or  the  Scotch  psalm-singing,  or  the 
English  Litany,  or  the  Methodist  prayer,  on  all  shores 
and  in  all  tongues,  because  there  will  be  no  part  of  the 
world,  north  or  south,  ancient  or  modern,  savage  or  civil- 


CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL   RELIGION.  439 

ized,  in  which  the  name  of  Christ  will  not  be  repeated,  and 
his  rehirion  make  some  show  :  but  because  it  will  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  all  religions  and  transform  them  into  its 
own  likeness.  That  any  form  of  Christianity  that  has  been 
known  since  the  tragedy  of  Calvary  will  become  the  sjib- 
stitiite  for  all  the  forms  and  faiths  of  all  the  nations  is  only 
an  idle  dream,  fit  to  amuse  credulous  and  enthusiastic 
souls.  But  that  the  soul  of  the  Christ  of  God  will  inform 
and  illumine  the  life  of  all  the  nations  is  the  most  reason- 
able of  all  religious  hopes. 

I,  Let  us  notice  some  of  the  reasons  of  this  hope,  some 
of  the  reasons  why  Christianity  fulfils  the  idea,  and  meets 
the  demand  of  a  universal  religion.  The  first  of  these  is 
that  it  addresses  itself  to  all  classes,  conditions,  ranks  and 
ages  in  society,  and  finds  its  saints  everywhere  ;  that  it  is 
in  no  sense  national,  peculiar  or  exclusive.  It  is  a  religion 
lor  the  old  and  the  young,  for  the  wise  and  the  simple,  for 
the  rich  and  the  poor,  for  the  master  and  the  servant, — 
independent  of  all  circumstance  or  spiritual  state.  There 
may  be  national  conditions  to  which  it  is  not  adapted,  but 
for  individual  men  and  women  and  children,  it  is  always 
Sfood.  Its  essential  ideas  are  welcome  evervwhere.  That 
can  be  said  of  no  other  religion  and  no  philosophical  sys- 
tem. The  sacred  books  of  India  and  Persia  and  China, 
the  wise  boo'ks  of  Greece  and  Rome,  never  can  find  such 
wide  favor  as  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  or  the  records  of 
the  Evangelists.  Exceptional  men  may  prefer  other  teach- 
ing to  the  teaching  of  these  simple  records,  but  this  pref- 
erence is  not  ordered  by  any  rule  of  race  or  class.  The 
testimony  to  the  surpassing  value  and  beauty  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion  comes  not  alone  from  the  devotion  of  those 
who  blindly  assent  to  it,  but  from  the  deliberate  judgment 
of  the  wisest  men,  and  even  from  the  judgment  of  enemies. 
Rousseau  wrote  its  eulogy  while  he  would  set  up  another 
oracle  of  truth.  That  it  is  beyond  the  mark  of  actual 
human  life  almost  everywhere  does  not  prove  that  it  is  not 
adapted  to  the  condition  of  men.  Every  one  would  like 
to  live  up  to  it.  No  one  pretends  to  live  beyond  it.  Even 
those  who  reject  the  Gospel  do  not  pretend  that  they  are 
better  or  happier  than  they  would  be  if  they  lived  up  to  its 
precepts.     Christianity  had  its  cradle  in  Judea,  and   his- 


440  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 

torically  was  born  of  a  very  close  and  national  religion  ; 
yet  it  is  in  no  sense  a  Jewish  religion,  and  the  Jews  claim 
no  property  in  it.  It  suits  the  blood  of  the  artistic  Greek, 
of  the  arbitrary  Roman,  of  the  ardent  African,  as  much 
as  of  the  Jew,  Lineage  and  climate  make  no  law  of  its 
diffusion.  The  calendar  of  the  Church  represents  very 
well  this  wide  adaptation  of  the  religion.  Its  saints  and 
heroes,  not  selected  by  design  to  illustrate  this  idea,  but 
chosen  from  age  to  age  by  their  personal  merit,  are  seen 
to  come  from  every  race  and  station.  Some  have  been 
humble  men,  of  mean  descent  and  small  fortune,  while 
others  have  borne  dignities  and  have  filled  the  seats  of  the 
teachers.  Some  have  been  anchorites,  dwelling  alone  in 
prayer  and  fasting,  while  others  have  been  busy  in  the 
streets  of  cities,  in  works  of  charity  and  mercy.  Some 
have  the  brow  of  youth,  all  radiant  with  health  and  life, 
while  others  show  the  lines  of  haggard  age,  rapt  only  in 
the  vision  of  the  near  heaven  so  long  expected.  Ambrose 
and  Antony,  Catherine  and  Theresa,  Louis  the  King, 
girded  with  armor,  Bernard  the  Abbot,  with  the  Pastor's 
staff,  and  the  mendicant  Francis,  barefoot  and  a  beggar, — 
these  and  how  many  more,  show  us  by  their  union  in  the 
line  that  Christianity  belongs  to  no  class,  and  has  a  word 
and  a  call  for  all.  Judaism  could  never  become  a  religion 
for  the  world,  because  it  has  a  priestly  caste,  a  set  of  men 
who  own  as  exclusive  right  its  honors  and  mysteries,  and 
whom  the  rest  must  obey.  No  religion  that  has  a  priestly 
caste  can  ever  be  universal,  whatever  its  precepts.  The 
universal  religion  must  reach  the  highest  and  the  lowest 
alike,  and  be  as  good  for  one  as  for  all.  This  Christianity 
is,  by  the  confession  alike  of  friends  and  foes.  This  is  the 
objection  to  it  made  by  many :  that  it  is  too  democratic  ; 
that  it  levels  distinctions  ;  that  it  confuses  social  order  by 
giving  one  rule  for  all.  This  is  its  plea,  even  with  its 
creed  banner  held  up  in  the  van  of  its  march, — one  salva- 
tion for  all,  the  same  law  for  saint  and  sinner,  one  door 
by  which  all  enter  in. 

You  may  plead,  indeed,  that  times  arise  in  the  life  of 
almost  every  one,  when  Christ's  teaching  is  found  inade- 
quate to  show  duty ;  that  there  are  difficult  cases  of  con- 
science that  the  religion  is  unable  to  meet ;  that  it  is  not 


CHEISTIANITT  THE  UNIVERSAL  BELIGION.  44 1 

in  harmony  with  many  natural,  permanent,  and  therefore 
innocent  instincts,  and  that  it  does  not  help  on  that  mate- 
rial gain  and  comfort  which  is  the  first  need  and  end  of 
man  upon  the  earth.  Are  there  not  many  who  fail  to  find 
in  this  religion  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  their  phys- 
ical life  ?  It  tells  them  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow, 
while  they  have  to  take  thought  for  the  morrow,  else  they 
cannot  live.  It  tells  them  to  lay  up  treasure  in  heaven, — 
while  here  they  are  upon  earth,  and  have  this  to  care  for. 
It  tells  them  to  trust  their  brethren,  while  their  brethren 
are  actually  false  and  treacherous.  It  tells  them  to  ren- 
der to  Caesar  his  due,  when  Caesar  is  a  hard  task-master 
and  would  despoil  them  of  their  right.  It  tells  them  not 
to  fear  death,  when  the  fear  of  death  is  the  best  security 
for  life.  Can  a  religion  be  universal  which  has  in  it  so 
much  which  is  impracticable,  so  much  which  is  unsuited 
to  every  actual  social  state,  so  much  which  must  be  varied 
and  modified  and  explained  away  ?  How  much  of  the 
religion  would  be  left,  if  all  must  take  only  what  every  one 
can  use  ?  There  are  Christian  ideas  which  are  adapted  to 
the  Chinese  and  Hindoos,  but  are  there  not  ideas  which 
must  be  left  out  of  the  preaching  if  these  races  are  to 
accept  it?  If  Christianity  must  be  clipped  and  twisted 
and  beaten  out  to  suit  the  state  of  men  in  Christian  lands, 
must  be  warped  to  the  prejudices  of  rank  and  wealth  and 
dogmatism,  or  to  the  exigencies  of  trade  and  war,  how 
shall  it  be  brought  to  the  more  exacting  needs  of  heathen 
lands  ? 

This  objection  has  a  plausible  sound,  but  is  sophistical 
withal.  It  may  best  be  met  by  considering  what  Chris- 
tianity is  in  its  origin  and  its  essence.  But  we  may  say  in 
passing  that  an  elastic  reach  and  range  is  not  an  objection 
to  any  system.  The  air  is  elastic,  and  may  be  compressed 
or  expanded,  modified  by  vapors  or  odors,  but  it  is  not 
any  the  less  the  all-embracing  and  the  all-penetrating 
source  of  life.  The  air  on  the  mountain  is  lighter  than 
the  air  in  the  valley ;  the  air  on  the  plain  is  purer  than  the 
air  in  the  mine  or  in  the  tenement-houses  of  the  city ;  but 
it  is  still  air,  and  better  than  any  compound  of  the  chem- 
ists' art.  Water  is  elastic,  and  is  beaten  into  wave  and 
foam  by  the  freaks  of  the  wind,  and  yields  before  the  cut- 


442  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 


ting  keel ;  yet  it  holds  no  less  its  majestic  flow,  and  runs 
where  the  ri2:id  line  of  lava  cannot  run.  It  is  a  merit  of 
Christianity  that  it  will  bear  so  much  stretching  and  twist- 
ing, and  yet  keep  its  integrity ;  that  it  has  such  power  of 
self-restoration  ;  that  now,  after  all  these  pleas  of  priests 
and  rulers  and  worldly  sophists,  after  all  this  false  hand- 
ling in  the  saloon  and  the  market-place,  and  on  the  battle- 
field, it  still  continues  to  speak  of  peace  and  justice,  and 
love  and  forgiveness. 

The  wonderful  power  of  the  Catholic  Church  is  shown 
in  its  skill  to  take  advantage  of  passing  issues,  to  meet  all 
emergencies,  yet  keep  its  unity  throughout  all.  And  it  is 
evidence  of  the  universal  value  of  the  Christian  religion, 
that  it  will  bear  so  much  manipulation,  so  much  expansion 
and  contraction,  without  losing  any  of  its  essential  ideas, 
and  that  we  can  know  what  it  is  and  was,  after  all  these 
transformations. 

2.   But  we  find  another  reason  for  believing  that  Chris- 
tianity is  a  universal  religion  in  the  hiunanity  of  its  origin. 
It  begins  with   tangible    historical   fact  —  with    a   human 
biography.     Jesus  is  not,  like  the  gods  of  the  Pagan  relig- 
ions, a  mythical  character,  half  human,  half  monstrous,  but 
he  is  a  man,  born  of  woman,  with  a  human  name,  lineage 
and  work.     The  wonderful  works  which  he  is  recorded  to 
have  done  are  not  fabulous  prodigies,  works  in  the  clouds, 
but  human  offices,  the  works  which  come  from  the  wisdom 
of  the  human  mind  and  the  sympathies  of  the  human  heart. 
The  story  of  Jesus  is  everywhere  intelligible,  and  appeals 
to  all  who  have  human  feeling.    If  the  original  record  were 
lost,  and  we  had  only  left  the  deified  Christ  of  the  creeds, 
Jesus  might  become  as  vague  and  legendary  as  the  deified 
heroes  of  the  Pagan  mythology.     But  the  records  survive, 
and  they  have  been  multiplied  in  such  abundance  that  all 
tribes  find  access  to  them.     The  story  of  Jesus  is  the  only 
story  of   a  founder  of  the  religion  which  is  ever  likely  to 
become  widely  known  or  widely  attractive ;  the  only  story 
of  a  religious  founder  which  makes  its  appeal  directly  to 
the  hearts  of  men.     Jesus  is  the  one  Saviour  of  men  who 
can   be  brought  into   tender  personal   relations  with  the 
human  soul,  and  with  every  human  soul ;  whom  saint  and 
sinner,  too,   can  accept  as  a  brother  and   think  of   as   a 


cnnisrr.\Nirr  the  universal  iieligion.  443 

brother  in  the  flesh.     The  Hindoo  can  have  no  snch  rela- 
tion  with   the   mystical   Brahma  or   the    ascetic    Buddha, 
avoiding  human  companionship.     The  Chinese  can  have 
no  such  tender  feeling  for  the  great  Confucius,  exalted  by 
his  wisdom.     Hercules,  and  Prometheus,  and  Odin,  and 
all  the  divine  men  of  Pagan  lore,  are  of  another  kind  than 
this   Divine   Man,  whose  best  divinity  was  in  his  perfect 
human  work.     The  acts  and  spirit  of  Jesus  are  the  inter- 
pretation of  human  experience  and  life.     He  is   all   the 
more  fit  to  be  the  Redeemer  of  the  world  that  his  life  on 
the  earth  was  in  such  a  small  theatre,  in  such  a  narrow 
land.     If,  instead  of  living  a  few  years  in  that  close  region 
of  Galilee  and  Judea,  he  had  for  a  century  gone  roaming 
through  the  countries  abroad  —  a  wandering  Jew  up  and 
down  the  earth  —  his  story  could  not  have  the  meaning  for 
men  that  it  now  has ;  its  very  volume  would  oppress  the 
imagination  and  destroy  its  simplicity.     But  now  how  full 
it  is,  and  yet  how  easily  read  and  how  easily  understood  ; 
—  a  man  in  Palestine,  living  and  dying,  teaching  and  heal- 
ing, and  entering  into  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life  in  that 
narrow  land,  between  the  river  and  the  sea,  and  yet  such 
a  man  as  every  nation  would  be  glad  to  own,  and  would 
make  its  own  model  of  the  righteous  life.     We  may  not 
say  that  no  religion  has  had  so  dignified  a  beginning  as 
this,  but  we  may  say  that  no  religion  starts  in  such  clear 
daylight,  with  such  positive  credentials  of  its  fitness  for 
men.     Its  centre,  and  its  indestructible  part,  is  not  a  song 
of  angels,  not  a  cosmogonic  tale,  not  an  allegory  or  an 
epic,  not   any  writing  of  the   Invisible   God  on  tables  of 
stone  even,  but  a  life,  as  human  in  its  deeds  and  its  loves 
as  any  life  of  man  ever  will  be,  of  one  who  ate  and  wept 
and  prayed,  who  was  a  physician  and  preacher,  a  censor 
of  morals  and  a  friend  in  distress,  and  a  servant  of  the 
men  who  called  him  their  master.     The  religion  that  has 
this  central  figure  has  an  advantage  over  all  other  relig- 
ions which  are  gathered  around  some  shadow  of  a  name, 
or  around  some  incomprehensible  legend.     And  the  story 
of  the  martyrdom  of  Jesus  has  an  appeal  of  its  own,  as  it 
shows  the  voluntary  surrender  of  life  to  higher  spiritual 
ends.      Other  religions   have   their   martyrs  —  deaths    en- 
dured  rather   than    relinquish    faith.      But    these    martyrs 


444  CUEISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  EELIGION. 

have  been  victims  of  a  power  which  they  might  not  resist. 
Jesus,  on  the  other  hand,  appears  as  the  willing  martyr, 
not  using  the  privilege  of  his  power  to  save  his  own  hfe, 
but  going  to  death  with  an  assurance  that  his  dying  might 
bring  greater  gain  and  be  a  blessing  to  the  world.  "  And  I, 
if  I  be  lifted  up,  will  draw  all  men  unto  me."  This  is  not 
a  vain  boast,  when  we  think  of  the  spirit  in  which  the  man 
of  Calvary  met  the  death  which  they  gave  him. 

3.  A  third  reason  for  assuming  the  universality  of  the 
Christian  religion  is  found  in  its  ethical  character.  Its 
philosophy  and  its  spirit  are  all  moral.  There  is  no  meta- 
physic  speculation  in  it,  no  theological  abstractions.  It  is 
all  concerned  with  men  and  the  duties  of  men,  with  the 
relations  of  human  life.  What  is  clearest  in  it  is  its  prac- 
tical moral  teaching.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  no  sys- 
tem of  abstract  theology  ever  has  been  drawn,  or  ever  can 
be  drawn,  from  the  fragmentary  record  of  the  four  gospels, 
while  it  is  entirely  possible  to  make  from  these  a  system 
of  morals.  The  Epistles  of  Paul  and  the  sentences  of  the 
prophets  have  more  place  in  what  is  called  Christian  the- 
ology than  the  words  of  Jesus.  The  Gospel  of  John,  in- 
deed, has  a  tone  of  mysticism,  and  there  are  hints  of 
the  higher  spiritual  wonders  and  the  order  of  things  exclu- 
sively divine.  But,  abstracting  what  John  himself  says  in 
his  Gospel,  Jesus  appears  here  as  a  moral  teacher  as  much 
as  in  the  other  three  Gospels.  Now  a  religion  that  is  mys- 
tical, abstract,  or  mainly  theological,  can  never  be  the 
religion  of  all  nations,  or  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men.  Duties  are  more  easily  understood  than  doctrines, 
and  a  religion  which  tells  what  to  do  has  a  broader  com- 
pass than  a  religion  that  tells  what  to  believe.  And  Chris- 
tianity makes  its  morality  the  basis  of  its  salvation.  It 
teaches  that  righteousness  is  the  ground  of  hope,  and  that 
by  this  men  come  into  the  kingdom  of  God.  The  Chris- 
tian creeds,  indeed,  do  not  teach  this ;  and  they  hinder  by 
their  doctrine  of  faith  in  dogmas  the  spread  of  the  truth 
which  they  would  carry.  The  dogma  of  justification  by 
faith  alone  can  never  be  a  universal  formula.  But  the 
preaching  of  an  upright  life,  of  virtues  such  as  those  in  the 
Christian  system,  of  service  limited  by  these  moral  laws, 
will  make  a  religion  everywhere  in  place.     There  are  many 


CIIRISTIAXITr  THE  UNIVERSAL   RELIGION.  445 

places  on  tlie  earth  where  the  doctrines  of  Trinity  and  of 
Angels,  and  of  vicarious  suffering,  would  neither  be  ac- 
cepted nor  understood,  however  ingeniously  argued  ;  but 
where  is  the  place  in  which  the  morality  of  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount,  or  of  the  Parables,  would  not  be  acknowledged 
as  noble  ?  In  this  prevailing  moral  spirit,  the  Christian 
religion  is  shown  to  be  a  religion  for  all  men. 

4.  And  another  reason  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
Christianity  takes  men  as  they  are  and  provides  for  their 
actual  life.  It  speaks  of  heaven  and  of  a  world  beyond 
this  ;  yet  its  law  is  all  for  this  world.  It  has  no  special 
teachins:  for  anv  other  state  than  this  of  earth.  Its  moral- 
ity  is  for  the  concerns  of  the  social  life  of  men,  of  their 
dealinors  and  relations  more  than  of  their  dreams  and  fan- 
cies.  The  kingdom  which  Jesus  brings  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  ;  vet  it  is  to  be  noted  that  in  his  w^ords  there  is  no 
law  for  any  other  life  than  that  which  men  have  here  on 
the  earth  together.  The  only  ordered  heaven  of  the  Gos- 
pel is  the  heaven  of  human  homes  and  human  help.  Chris- 
tianity in  this  way  simplifies  religion  by  concentrating  its 
force  upon  the  actual  work  and  life  of  men,  and  by  assum- 
ing that  they  are  in  their  right  place  where  they  are,  that 
the  wrons:  is  not  in  their  condition,  but  in  their  wavs  and 
their  lives,  and  that  this  can  be,  and  ought  to  be,  reme- 
died. When  a  missionary  of  the  cross  goes  to  any  hea- 
then land,  his  first  care  is  to  learn  the  language  and  the 
customs  of  that  land,  that  he  may  make  these  the  vehicle 
of  his  word  of  reform.  He  does  not  tell  them  that  they 
are  wretched  in  having  been  born  Chinese  or  Hindoo,  but 
that  he  has  something  for  them  that  will  make  them  better 
Chinese  or  Hindoos  than  they  have  ever  been  before ;  that 
will  purify  their  lives,  and  make  God's  Providence  more 
real  in  their  condition.  He  tells  them  that  the  sunlight  of 
their  own  land  is  as  good  as  the  sunlight  of  any  land,  and 
that  the  heaven  is  as  near  to  them  there  as  it  would  be 
anywhere.  Christian  civilization  does  not  mean  merely 
the  life  of  Europe  or  of  America,  but  the  morality  w^hich 
would  make  the  husband  kind  to  the  wife,  children  obedi- 
ent to  parents,  neighbors  mutually  helpful,  laborers  indus- 
trious, tradesmen  honest,  rulers  just,  all  men  truthful, 
sober,  peaceable  and  humble.     Bishop  Colenso  can  preach 


446  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 

this  Gospel  to  the  Zulus  as  well  as  to  the  lords  of  Eng- 
land, and  they  understand  it  as  well. 

5.  And  the  religion  of  Jesus  has  this  advantage  over 
other  religions,  that  it  holds  to  the  worth  of  man  as  man, 
independently  of  his  condition.  There  is  no  class  that  it 
despises.  There  is  no  class  that  it  fairly  casts  out.  It 
tells  the  poor  everywhere  that  they  are  children  of  God 
and  are  rich  in  his  love.  It  tells  the  weak  everywhere  that 
they  are  strong  in  the  Lord,  and  may  prevail  by  his 
strenirth.  It  calls  sinners  into  the  kins^dom.  It  comes 
not  only  to  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel,  but  to  sheep, 
lost  and  wandering,  of  every  land.  It  realizes  that  line  of 
the  Roman  dramatist,  and  is  so  human  itself  that  nothing 
human  is  foreign  to  it.  No  national  prejudice  can  bar  the 
way  to  the  Christian  appeal  and  call.  It  is  enough  that 
man  is  born  of  woman  and  has  a  part  in  the  common  lot 
to  make  him  a  child  of  the  Church.  No  matter  what  theo- 
ries of  native  or  total  depravity  any  Christian  teachers 
.may  hold,  whether  they  accept  the  sternest  doctrine  of 
hereditary  guilt,  or  whether  they  believe  that  all  children 
are  innocent  at  birth  and  angels  of  God  ;  in  this  they 
agree, — that  all  are  worth  saving ;  that  all  ought  to  be 
redeemed  by  the  Gospel.  Christianity  is  the  only  religion 
that  has  ever  tried  to  teach  idiots,  not  only  to  comfort,  but 
to  enlighten  and  restore,  the  feeble-minded.  Other  relig- 
ions have  recognized  a  kind  of  inspiration  in  lunacy,  and 
have  listened  to  the  ravings  of  maniacs  as  if  these  were 
the  voices  of  God's  prophets  ;  but  Christianity  alone  has 
essayed  to  cast  out  the  devils,  and  to  bring  back  human 
reason  in  place  of  mad  ravings.  This  religion  alone  has 
the  end  of  making  perfect  men  out  of  all  kinds  of  mate- 
rial, and  of  building  its  houses  of  wood  and  hay,  and  stub- 
ble even,  as  well  as  of  brick  and  stone.  In  the  very 
beginning,  Jesus,  skilled  in  the  lore  of  the  Jewish  teach- 
ers, and  able  to  confute  Rabbins  in  discerning  the  Law, 
addressed  himself  to  the  humblest  class,  and  talked  with 
the  multitude  whom  the  scribes  neglected,  and  healed  the 
lepers,  who  were  shunned  as  unclean.  And  his  followers 
in  all  the  ages  have  kept  that  custom.  Wise,  and  great 
and  powerful  as  the  Christian  Church  has  become,  ally  of 
the  powers  of  the  world,  strong  in  learned  disputes,  it  has 


CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL   RELIGION.  447 

nev^er  forgotten  that  its  ministry  was  to  bring  men  up  from 
their  low  estate,  and  give  them  their  birthright.  It  has 
told  not  only  the  noble  and  bright  souls  to  become  per- 
fect, but  the  weak  and  penitent  souls  as  well.  We  feel 
that  any  teacher,  however  wise  or  pious,  denies  the  large 
word  of  the  Gospel,  who  says  that  there  is  any  man  or 
woman  fated  to  perdition  by  innate  worthlessness,  any 
man  or  woman  whom  God's  grace  may  not  reach,  any  man 
or  woman  too  low  to  be  lifted,  too  foul  to  breathe  celestial 
airs.  The  very  doctrine  of  death-bed  repentance,  which 
only  Christianity  holds,  unsafe  as  it  is,  misapplied  as  it  is, 
has  this  of  merit,  that  it  testifies  to  the  worth  of  the  human 
soul.  This  cannot  be  let  go,  even  in  long  transgression 
and  obstinate  in  its  sin.  The  Christian  religion  will  never 
despair  of  any  soul  so  long  as  life  holds  ;  and  by  its  doc- 
trine of  purgatory,  it  even  follows  the  soul  into  the  life 
beyond,  and  cares  for  it  there.  The  Catholic  Church,  in 
this  doctrine,  teaches  that  the  soul  of  the  dead  sinner  is 
worth  saving,  too,  and  may  be  caught  in  its  fall  by  the 
prayers  of  the  faithful  on  earth,  and  held  until  its  sin  shall 
be  expiated  and  pardon  shall  be  granted.  The  very 
abuses  of  the  Church  testify  to  its  love  for  souls,  and  to 
its  estimate  of  the  worth  of  man.  In  this  regard,  Chris- 
tianity is  broader,  not  only  than  all  the  heathen  religions, 
but  than  any  of  the  philosophies  which  would  take  its 
place  and  set  it  aside.  Stoicism,  which  sometimes  coun- 
terfeits the  Gospel,  and  has  in  its  training  many  of  the 
manlier  Christian  virtues,  differs  in  this,  that  it  despises 
weak  souls,  timid,  effeminate,  impure.  It  takes  as  its 
motto  not  the  line  of  the  Roman  freedman,  which  we  just 
now  quoted,  but  that  other  line  of  the. Roman  sybarite,  "  I 
hate  the  profane  crowd,  and  I  keep,  them  under.''  The 
French  atheists,  in  their  mad  rioting,  crow-ned  a  harlot  and 
proclaimed  her  goddess  of  reason,  in  place  of  religion 
crushed  out.  But  Christianity  is  not  afraid  to  take  as  a 
saint  the  sinning  woman,  who  loved  so  much,  and  washed 
with  her  tears  the  feet  of  the  messenger  of  God. 

6.  And  one  more  proof  we  may  find  of  the  universal 
worth  of  the  Christian  Gospel,  in  its  doctrine  of  unity. 
Other  religions  have  taught  the  law  of  love,  and  the  golden 
rule  is  found  in  many  tongues.      But  only  the  Christian 


44S   CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 

religion  has  taught  the  substantial  unity  of  the  human  race, 
the  virtual  brotherhood  of  men.  Paul,  on  Mars  Hill, 
quoted  from  a  Greek  poet  to  justify  his  doctrine  that  God 
had  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations  of  men  ;  but  the 
Greek  poet  did  not  say  all  that  Paul  said,  and  did  not 
mean  all  that  Paul  made  him  to  mean.  The  races  of  men 
are  made  one  in  the  Christian  Gospel.  The  white  man  by 
this  is  made  to  feel  that  he  is  brother  of  the  red  man  and 
the  yellow  man  and  the  black  man.  Ethiopia  for  the 
Christian  missionary  stretches  out  her  hands  as  much  as 
Macedonia  calls  ;  barbarian  or  Greek,  Jew  or  Copt,  all 
are  his  brethren,  and  all  are  brethren  one  of  another.  This 
is  the  Christian  theory,  however  widely  it  may  be  departed 
from  in  practice.  In  Christ  all  men  are  to  become  one. 
His  reconciliation  is  to  be  not  only  the  reconciliation  of 
sinning  souls  to  the  great  God,  but  the  reconciliation  of 
divided  souls  to  each  other.  Christianity  makes  of  men 
in  all  nations  and  climes  a  /ami/y,  while  it  shows  in  God 
their  Father. 

The  uniting  religion  will  be  the  universal  religion.  No 
religion  ever  can  be  universal  which  in  any  way  separates 
the  souls  of  men,  encourages  their  divisions,  encourages 
their  isolation,  encourages  their  personal  pride,  which  does 
not  give  a  common  hope  and  a  common  love.  This  bind- 
ing together  of  men  is  the  complement  of  the  binding  of 
the  soul  to  God,  and  this  we  find  in  the  Christian  Gospel. 
This  is  the  only  religious  system  which  has  ever  seriously 
proposed  to  make  the  whole  race  of  man  a  brotherhood, 
and  which  sees  that  brotherhood  in  its  vision  of  the  com- 
ing kingdom.  All  schemes  of  consolidation,  of  co-opera- 
tion, of  partial  unity  among  trades  and  professions,  all  the 
communities  and  fraternities  and  phalanxes  are  only  ex- 
periments which  the  broad  theory  of  Christianity  has  sug- 
gested. These  Shaker  fanatics,  these  Icarian  visionaries, 
Fourier  and  Owen,  and  all  their  tribe,  only  have  tried  to 
carry  out  on  a  small  scale  what  Christianity  would  carry 
out  in  the  spirit  all  over  the  earth.  Christianity  denounces 
everything  that  makes  men  enemies,  and  declares  that 
good-will  everywhere  among  men  is  the  highest  state  and 
the  crowning  joy. 

There  are  these   reasons,  then,  for  believing  that    the 


CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL   RELIGION.  449 


Christian  religion  ought  to  be  and  will  be  the  universal  re- 
ligion ; — that  it  addresses  itself  to  all  classes,  and  finds  its 
saints  in  all  classes  ;  that  it  originates  in  a  human  life, 
which  all  can  see,  love  and  understand ;  that  its  spirit  is 
moral,  and  that  it  deals  with  human  duties  ;  that  it  takes 
men  as  they  are  and  provides  for  their  actual  life  ;  that  it 
holds  to  the  worth  of  man  as  man,  without  regard  to  his 
condition  ;  and  that  it  unites  men  in  one  brotherhood. 

Other  reasons  might  be  added,  but  these  are  sufficient. 
These  are  characteristic  marks  of  Christianitv  which  dis- 
tin<ruish  it  from  other  relisfions.  Of  no  other  existinof 
religion  can  these  things  be  said.  No  existing  religion 
has  any  such  plan  of  action,  any  such  hope  of  triumph. 
No  heathen  religion  expects  that  its  church  will  ever  cover 
the  whole  world  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea,  while  the 
Christian  religion  inspires  that  belief  even  in  its  smallest 
sects  and  fragments  of  sects.  The  earnest  men  in  all  the 
sects  profess  to  believe  that  at  some  day  or  other  all  men 
will  adopt  their  profession,  all  men  will  agree  to  their 
creed.  That  is  the  grand  pretension  of  the  Roman  Church, 
which  has  yet  among  its  members  hardly  a  sixth  or  a  tenth 
of  the  human  race ;  that  is  the  presumption  of  the  Church 
of  Swedenborg  as  well,  that  their  new  Jerusalem,  so  nar- 
row now,  will  at  last  contain  all  the  tribes  of  men.  The 
sound  Anglican  divine  is  confident  that  his  articles  will  yet 
become  the  universal  saving  faith  ;  and  every  Sunday  that 
confidence  is  matched  in  the  sermons  of  the  Mormon  Tab- 
ernacle. Methodists  in  their  Conference  insist  that  the 
followers  of  Wesley  are  heirs  of  the  kingdom  of  the  earth 
as  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  and  the  followers  of  Ballou 
and  Murray  preach  in  this,  their  centenary  year,  that  in 
God's  time  the  whole  world  will  become  Universalist,  that 
this  is  the  coming  faith  of  the  race  of  man.  Now  this  con- 
fidence of  the  several  sects,  large  and  small,  in  its  own 
future,  each  in  its  own  triumph,  in  its  own  universal  do- 
minion, preposterous  as  it  seems  to  a  rational  mind,  only 
shows  what  is  the  hope  and  inspiration  of  the  wider  relig- 
ion of  which  these  sects  are  only  shoots  and  rays.  The 
Christianity  which  is  finally  to  prevail  is  not  the  peculiar- 
ity of  any  sect,  but  the  part  which  they  all  have  in  com- 
mon. This  their  zeal  bears  onward,  and  on  this  they  have 
29 


4.50  CHRISTIANITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION. 

no  controversv.  This  essential  Christianity  is  rootins:  it- 
self  in  the  world  day  by  day,  year  by  year,  more  firmly,  in 
spite  of  all  attacks  upon  one  or  another  of  its  branches. 
It  grows  like  that  tree  once  so  bright  in  the  gardens,  but 
now  despised  by  fastidious  taste,  —  the  Balm  of  Gilead, — 
and  though  its  boughs  may  be  hacked  and  its  trunk  laid 
low,  its  roots  will  still  send  up  their  shoots  all  around,  and 
all  the  more  that  the  stronger  growth  is  hindered.  The 
attempts  to  depreciate  Christianity  only  aid  it  by  compell- 
ing its  teachers  to  come  back  from  its  incidental  and  tem- 
porary adjuncts  to  its  central  principles,  to  press  what  is 
simple  more  than  what  is  obscure,  what  is  rational  more 
than  what  is  fantastic. 

The  time  is  certainly  not  very  near  at  hand  when  Chris- 
tianity  will  become  the  relis^ion  of  all  the  race  of  man. 
Geologists  predict  that  in  the  end  of  ages  the  primitive 
chaos  will  come  back,  that  the  elements  which  have 
wrought  this  creation  of  the  spinning  planets  and  the  fer- 
tile earth  out  of  the  nebulous  void  are  at  work  in  its 
destruction,  and  that  the  fire  and  the  water  will  whelm  all 
these  forms  of  physical  life.  Then,  the  cynics  say,  when 
there  are  no  more  any  men  on  the  earth,  when  it  is  all  an 
ice-bound  extinct  volcano,  waiting  to  be  cast  into  frag- 
ments, Christianity  may  as  well  be  a  universal  religion. 
But  the  time  of  the  triumph  of  the  Gospel  will  hardly  be 
sooner  than  the  time  of  the  death  of  the  race.  Of  what 
avail,  they  plead,  are  all  these  missionary  efforts,  all  this 
preaching  to  the  heathen,  all  these  Bibles  sent,  all  these 
churches  gathered  ?  Are  not  the  millions  obstinate  in 
their  blindness  ?  Twelve  hundred  years  have  passed  since 
the  Arabian  prophet  proclaimed  his  divine  mission,  un- 
furled his  green  banner,  and  sent  out  his  conquering 
armies.  What  country  that  he  conquered  has  ever  been 
rescued  by  any  missionaries  of  the  Cross  ?  Nay,  if  we  add 
to  the  millions  of  the  heathen  and  the  millions  of  the  Mos- 
lem, the  millions  of  those  who  in  Christian  lands  have  lost 
faith  in  the  religion  of  the  former  ages,  shall  we  not  see  a 
narrowing  rather  than  a  widening  of  the  circle  of  influence  ? 
Is  it  not  the  idlest  dream  that  this  reli2:ion,  or  that  any 
religion,  shall  ever  conquer  the  intellect  or  evefi  the  heart 
of  all  the  race  of  men  ?     The  Churches  may  iterate  their 


CURISTIAXITY  THE  UNIVERSAL  RELIGION.  451 

word  that  only  by  the  name  of  Christ  anywhere  under  the 
heaven  can  men  be  saved,  but  what  sensible  man  can 
receive  a  theory  which  is  denied  by  the  life  and  death  of 
all  these  generations  ?  When  this  Gospel  is  so  threatened 
in  its  own  citadel,  and  may  be  starved  out  or  crushed  out 
there,  is  it  wise  to  boast  of  its  possible  victories  in  a  do- 
minion where  it  has  yet  hardly  found  foothold  ? 

But  there  are  theories  so  inspiring,  there  are  fancies  so 
blessed,  that  no  cvnic  cavils  can  set  them  aside.  Asain 
and  again,  a  hundred  times  or  a  thousand  times,  these 
missionary  efforts  may  fail,  but  they  are  renewed  and  they 
will  be.  Never  was  the  Church  of  Christ  more  hopeful  of 
its  future  than  to-day.  Never  was  the  promise  more  cheer- 
ing. Who  speaks  of  giving  up  that  really  believes  in  this 
Gospel  ?  For  a  thousand  years,  for  ten  thousand  years,  it 
may  be,  the  great  consummation  may  be  withheld,  and  the 
nations  of  the  world  keep  their  separate  idols.  But  the 
seed  sown  so  widely  will  have  its  sure  harvest.  We  shall 
continue  to  believe,  and  we  shall  continue  to  say,  until 
some  grander  revelation  is  given,  that  the  religion  of  Christ 
is  the  best  boon  of  God  to  man,  the  power  of  God  and  the 
wisdom  of  God  unto  salvation.  And  even  if  it  should  wait 
for  its  glory  to  the  end  of  created  things,  we  shall  be  con- 
tent, remembering  that  strong  saying  of  Jesus,  "  Heaven 
and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  my  words  shall  not  pass 
away." 


a^M 


'■"i  .v"-7?¥>:-    .  ,:   '■•■''Kit...   "    ''j'^fi^'-'--^'^'^---^^^:^\..  '\M 


COLUMBIA   UNIVERSITY   LIBRARIES 

This  book  is  due  on  the  date  indicated  below,  or  at  the 
expiration  of  a  definite  period  after  the  date  of  borrowing,  as 
provided  by  the  library  rules  or  by  special  arrangement  with 
the  Librarian  in  charge. 

DATE  BORROWED 

DATE  DUE 

DATE  BORROWED 

DATE  DUE 

' 

- 

■  •    ■     , 

C2a (946)  MlOO 

M   ' 


V    1. 


m"i 


^K: 


s».     I  ,.^.j» 


•^Z''.A-^- 


'mxsj^^j>\ 


f\'*^ 


B768 

COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


0035521775 


Ji,  i.it.'.i:toJ 


B768 


Brigham 

Chai^les  Henry  Brighain, 


BRITTLE  DO  NOT 
PHOTOCOPY. 


